


Nine Holidays

by Minx_DeLovely



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-06
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 24,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26330182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minx_DeLovely/pseuds/Minx_DeLovely
Summary: (Sequel to, "Tom." This story probably won't make sense if you haven't read Tom. There's a bit of sex in this story, which is different than the first half.)Molly thought it was funny to watch him expound in French on the value of words, when in the past four months, he’d been terribly stingy with them regarding their relationship.The marriage plot, as he called it, had not budged from a half suggestion. More than that, everyone in their circle still believed they were only roommates. Molly wasn’t going to be the one to come into the open--she was waiting on him to declare himself.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 21
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

Christmas Eve, December 24

Molly sat on her cousin Alfie’s couch with his sons Evan and Auggie on either side of her. Evan, the 10-year-old, had begun dozing off but was fighting his instincts. Still, his copper-penny head kept lolling. He had Alfie’s bright, red hair and it reflected the colored fairy lights from the Christmas tree. Auggie was only 6, and had not stayed awake through midnight mass. He slept on Molly’s other shoulder. They’d all decided the kids could wait until morning to open presents, because they were too knackered to enjoy them anyway. It was a testament to how tired both boys were that they didn’t argue. 

Molly held her glass of Chambord, which was largely ornamental at that point, anyway, because if she took a sip she would fall asleep herself. She watched the adults in the room with a contented smile. Her cousin Alfie sat with her mother, Carolyn, in the corner, while the two discussed woodworking. Carolyn had just taken it up and had already won a local competition for her excellent turned pieces. Alfie made the motion of a lathe with one of his broad hands, while Carolyn nodded. Mom’s husband, Nico, had exhausted himself sipping sherry earlier in the night, and now lay curled up on the divan, his head as snowy white as Father Christmas’. Sherlock sat a little ways off, conversing earnestly in French with Paloma. Paloma held Sherlock’s hand in both of hers. Molly could only catch snatches of their conversation, because her French wasn’t great, but she knew Paloma was telling him about the etymology book she’d been wanting to write. Word origin was something of a passion for her, but she’d had difficulty gathering a fresh take on the material.

Molly thought it was funny to watch him expound in French on the value of words, when in the past four months, he’d been terribly stingy with them regarding their relationship. They slept in the same bed and had slowly become more intimate together. A month after he’d given her an engagement ring and sort-of asked her to marry him, he’d presented her with the results of his STD test, pronouncing him clean of all communicable diseases. That was his way of suggesting they have sex. The next day she’d cautiously initiated and it had been so much better than she’d anticipated. At least that aspect of their relationship was moving at a good pace. The marriage plot, as he called it, had not budged from a half suggestion. More than that, everyone in their circle still believed they were only roommates. Molly wasn’t going to be the one to come into the open--she was waiting on him to declare himself.

Molly’s mother stood up from her chair and stretched, drawing Molly’s attention back to the present. 

“What’s on your mind--you look so far away?” her mother asked.

“Don’t know, just tired.” 

“So am I.” Carolyn went over to her husband and prodded him on the shoulder. “What do you say, Nico, want to head off to our wing of the house and get some sleep?” 

Nico stirred and harumped loudly, his white mustache fluttering with the effort. “Yes. This spot will leave me in knots if I sleep here all night.”

Alfie hopped to his feet. “Mouse, I got the cottage set up for you, unless you and your friend want to stay up here. There’s scads of rooms upstairs.”

“No, the cottage is wonderful. Thank you,” Molly leaned forward, disentangling slightly from the boys, and set down her glass on the coffee table.

Paloma let go of Sherlock’s hands and looked over at her boys on the couch. “Oh, it’s so sad. I can’t lift Evan anymore. There was a time when I never put him down. Isn’t that always the way, Sherlock?” Paloma’s accent turned his name into something delicious.

“I can carry Evan up for you,” Sherlock said. 

“Thank you,” Paloma said. “At least Augustine is still small enough for mama.” 

They came over and scooped up the children, with brief smiles acknowledging Molly. She watched them carry the boys up the grand staircase of the estate. Staying at Alfie and Paloma’s was like spending Christmas in a historical museum. 

“Good night, Molly Dolly,” Her mother said, bending to give Molly a kiss as she went. Nico tousled Molly’s hair. 

“Merry Christmas, Little One,” Nico said. 

“Merry Christmas,” Molly said with a smile through gritted teeth. She hated he called her ‘Little One,’ especially since he was only a few inches taller than her. It wasn’t Nico’s fault he wasn’t her father and she reminded herself that as she stood and gave him a hug. She hugged her mother, too. 

“So good to be all together again,” Carolyn said. Nico and her mom went upstairs.  
Then it was Alfie’s turn to say goodnight. He gave her a bear hug.

“Happy you took us up on the offer.”

“Me too,” she said into his shoulder.

He let her go, and smiled down at her. “Your friend’s looking much better.”

“He’s been sober eight months. Part of that’s due to you.”

“I just lent you the cottage, that’s nothing.” 

“Not to me.”

Alfie kissed her cheek.

Paloma and Sherlock came back downstairs, arm in arm. His smile made him look a little tipsy. She wondered how much he’d had to drink, and then realized he hadn’t had a drop all night. Paloma continued speaking to him in French. 

Alfie whispered to Molly, “If it was any other bloke, I’d be worried.”

Molly was touched--she had no idea he realized that she and Sherlock were a couple. It meant a lot that he thought Sherlock was trustworthy, and that he cared for her.

“Thank you,” Molly said.

Alfie’s forehead crinkled in confusion, and she wondered if she’d read him wrong.

Sherlock and Paloma finished the long descent down the marble staircase, and then there was another round of “Merry Christmases” and “Goodbyes” as she and Sherlock put on their coats. This flurry of activity associated with coming and leaving in winter, always reminded Molly of a bird taking a dust bath.

Once they were safely outside in the brisk air, Sherlock put his arm around Molly.

“Were you having fun tonight?” She asked.

He kissed the top of her head.

“It was surprisingly, tolerable. Paloma knows a great deal about Latin word derivatives and I was able to converse with your stepfather in Greek.”

“I’m glad my family was tolerable,” Molly said, sarcastically.

Light snow began to fall around them. Molly could see the cottage down the hill. Alfie had left the lights on there and they blazed a beacon in the night. They got into their car, Sherlock in the driver’s seat. She clicked her seatbelt and he started the ignition. For a moment, he just sat there, with the car in park. She examined his face.

“Is there something wrong?”

Sherlock’s lip twitched, and his fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Did you tell Alfie I’m asexual?”

Embarrassment flooded her as she remembered that she had, more or less. All at once she realized what Alfie meant when he said he didn’t worry about Sherlock. Molly clapped a hand over her mouth, then let it fall.

“Um, I think I may have done. It was a while ago and he thought you and I were dating. It was when I thought it was true.”

“You thought it was true?” He was on the verge of shouting.

“Well, I don’t know. Why? Did Paloma say something?”

“She asked me what it was like to, ‘vivre sans désir.’”

“My French is not good.”

“Live without desire. I asked her to explain, and luckily no one else in the room understood.”

“What did you say?”

“I told her what you said wasn’t accurate, because you’d lacked understanding. In your ignorance--”

“Must you?”

“Your family thinks I’m a eunuch. I must. In your ignorance, you misunderstood my nature. I explained that I’d taken drugs as a form of repression, but now I’m open to desire. She offered to fix me up with one of her friends.”

“What did you say?”

“Worried I told her about us?”

“Not worried...but did you?”

“No. I told her to text me her friend’s number.”

Molly went cold all over. “Is that what you? Do you want someone else?”

“Don’t be stupid. I told her I was seeing someone but it was too new to discuss.”

“Oh.” She looked down. “You could have said it was me.”

“You didn’t wear your ring, not even on the chain around your neck the way you normally do, and I thought you’d want to keep it secret after the whole Tom fiasco.”

“I didn’t bring the ring more because I wasn’t sure how you felt about us.”

“I would think my presence here would tell you everything you needed to know.” He put the car in drive, clearly miffed by the tilt of his jaw. He pulled out and they began to wend down the dark drive.

Molly took a deep breath. “Do you want to get married?”

“I would, but I don’t think you do,” he said, quietly.

“I do,” she said more loudly than she intended. “I thought you weren’t sure. You took back the proposal--or more you never really made it in the first place--but then you gave me the ring. I didn’t really know what was going on, but It was so nice just being your girlfriend, I haven’t wanted to push.”

“I thought you changed your mind--typically that happens. Usually the greater exposure people have to me, the more they become averse. I come on like a nut allergy.”

“You really don’t. I’m used to you slipping off in your thoughts, that’s not so alarming once you explained yourself. You clean up and pitch in with cooking. You’re easy to live with when you’re not getting high and stabbing things.”

“Molly Hooper, your standards are so low as to be frightening.”

“I think my standards are fine. Not to knock John, but he’s a doctor--he should have noticed that behavior wasn’t all eccentricity.”

“Don’t pile on poor John. I am the addict.” Sherlock flexed his fingers on the steering wheel. 

“I’m not. I’m really not.” 

“Besides, sometimes I would put on some things for John--make a production of things to get his attention. Once I doused myself in blood before coming up the stairs to make him think I rode the tube like that.”

“Oh, you were quite starved for attention, weren’t you? What do you do to get my attention?”

“It’s easy, really. I just take off my shirt.”

They got to the cottage, and Sherlock put the car in park in the drive. She looked at his profile. The pleasant lines of his face could have provided the shadow for a Victorian silhouette. He didn’t look at her, even though he didn’t need to concentrate on the road any more.

“You really want to marry me?” she asked.

“Yes. Why is that so hard to believe?”

“Because of every experience I’ve ever had up to this point.” She ran her hands through her hair.

“Of course I don’t want to get married, but it seems like the most efficient way to get you to stay with me the rest of my life. Sex is built into the contract, and I’d like that to continue for as long as possible, too. I want you to wear your ring on your finger and to choose frocks, and select a cake. We can go to Westminster Abbey and invite everyone you’ve ever met and buy the paper, the fancy paper they need for it--”

“Paper?”

“To send to guests, inexplicably the word escapes me.”

“Invitations?”

“Yes. Can’t believe I deleted that word. We can send out engraved invitations with our initials entwined, and our middle names on prominent display. We can do all the things you’ve always dreamed about since you were a little girl, as long as at the end of it we are married and you live with me and you stay.”

He still wasn’t looking at her, just out at the trees surrounding the cottage, and the fuzzy light in the windows. Molly folded her hands in her lap. She felt nervous bringing this part up to him, because she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

“I’d like to do it small,” she said. “Maybe Meena and John standing up for us? We could just marry at the register office, unless you want something bigger.”

“You really don’t want a big wedding? I thought from the tenor of your book collection--”

“No. I did, but Tom. We sent out save-the-date cards and everything. Buster on the front. To have a big do so soon afterward, people will think I’m mad. Some of my relatives sent engagement presents. I’d be embarrassed.”

“That’s fine. Preparing for John’s wedding was torture; at least there was a murder attempt at the actual reception to liven things up, but we can’t count on that for us. I have never pictured my wedding day, which is something Mary told me people do, so I’ve no preferences. I like very few people, and I’m marrying half of them, so a big guest list is out of the question. I do want to see you in a white dress. The rest can hang.”

Sherlock opened the car door. He reached in the back seat and got their bags. Together they went inside the cottage. Alfie had put a wreath on the wall and there was a lovely tree decorated in multicolored bulbs and fairy lights. The whole place smelled like the fresh spruce tree. 

“It’s beautiful in here, isn’t it?” Molly took off her coat and hung it by the door. 

Sherlock didn’t bother--he set the bags down on the floor, then grabbed her around the waist as soon as she finished with her coat. He kissed her, hard on the mouth. Shock didn’t cover what she felt--he typically only approached her romantically in the dark. He touched her bare stomach with his cold hands, then tugged off her red and green jumper, only pausing the kiss so he could get it over her head. Then he took down her jeans and started stroking her over her panties. 

She broke away from his mouth long enough to whisper, “I’ve got to get out of my boots, I can’t move.”

“Don’t.” He picked her up, one arm under her ass, and carried her to the bedroom in a swoony stagger, while still kissing her mouth. 

She wanted to ask him what he thought he was doing, but it was clear what he was doing. He threw her on the bed. With one hand he unzipped his fly and took out his penis. It was already hard. He pressed her knees to her chest, so the godawful mess of her boots and jeans were hovering waist-high, and she was totally vulnerable.

“Can I?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Tell me.”

“You can fuck me.”

He gasped when she said fuck--for some reason it made him more excited than any other dirty word. He slid his finger under her knickers, caressing her labia. He touched her like she was rare and delicate. It was so gentle, she whimpered. 

“How should I fuck you? Like you’re my precious thing?” he asked, his voice low.

“Let’s not be too precious tonight,” she said.

He grinned. 

He lifted her by her hips off the bed. With his thumb, he pushed the fabric of her knickers out of the way and thrust inside her. Her breath caught, the sensation on the edge between pleasure and pain. Her reaction made him slow down. Slow strokes, with her legs trapped.

“Touch it for me-touch yourself. Make yourself wet for me,” he said.

She slid her hand between her legs and stroked her clit while he moved inside her. She closed her eyes and tried to keep from making noise, then remembered she could make noise because Mrs. Hudson wasn’t downstairs. He whimpered in time with his thrusts, strangling his cries like he did when he tried to masturbate in the bathroom without her knowing. The thought of him touching himself and biting his lip, brought her close. She looked up at him, the sweat poured down his forehead, his coat felt rough against her. He denied her the view of his flesh, and the feel of his skin. She wondered why, when he was usually obsessive about touching her when they were alone. 

He could read her now, differently than he had before--he’d taken in all the new data that having sex with her provided and tailored it to mutual advantage. 

Sherlock looked her in the eye, and said,“Stop thinking, Molly, just come.” 

He went deeper and she had no choice but to do as he said. She stopped thinking and started to keen. The pleasure mounted and she couldn’t stop herself. Over the edge, the explosion and release. She finished, the orgasm pattering through her. He must have felt her muscles clench in waves, because he sped up his thrusts until he climaxed. He pulled out of her and staggered back. She was so wet, and filthy with his come, her clothes were half on and half off. Everything was hot and sticky.

He took off his coat and dropped it on the ground gasping for breath. She laid there, dazed and staring at the ceiling, panting.

“Was that okay?” He sat down next to her. 

“It was good. Strange but fun.” Slowly, she sat up, and began untying her boots. 

“All I could think of when we were in church was trapping you here like that...I’m sorry.”

Molly popped her boot off of her foot just as he apologized. It landed with a thud. He started at the sound. 

“No reason to be sorry.” She smiled mischievously. 

“It feels like I did something wrong.”

“That made it better, didn’t it?”

He smiled shyly at her. “Naughty girl.”

With another thud, she divested herself of the other boot. She took off her jeans, her socks, and finally her damp knickers. 

“Get the bra for me.” She turned her back to him and moved her hair out of the way, so he’d have better access to the clasp. He undid it with one hand, then gently slid the straps down her arms. He kissed her shoulders reverently. 

“Following the tradition of the season, I got you a present.” He kissed her neck, tilting her head. “I didn’t want to give it to you in front of anyone else, because it’s clothing, and you specifically said clothing was a boundary, but for this I hope you’ll make an exception.”

“What is it?” she asked, pulling away. 

“It’s in the other room. Give me a moment.”

He got up and she heard a zipper and rustling in the other room. A few seconds later he came in holding a crinkly paper bag. He handed it to her.

“You didn’t wrap it?” She was surprised, not upset. The other gifts he had given her were usually impeccably wrapped and accompanied with neat, hand-written letters.

“I couldn’t bear the thought of handing you something beautiful, and then watching your excitement drain away when the paper was torn off. Just open it.”

She opened the bag and took out a, short-sleeved, black dress with an elaborate pink pattern on the front. On first sight, it looked paisley, but on closer inspection, the pink designs were Gothic skulls. It looked exactly like something she’d pick out for herself, if she felt comfortable spending the money. She never would have spent the money. 

“Do you like it?” he asked.

“It’s gorgeous.”

“So, it’s good?”

She leaned over and kissed him.”It’s perfect.”

He grinned, his whole expression transformed. She kissed him again, then placed pecks all around his face. 

“Silly,” he said, but he didn’t stop her. 

When she was satisfied, Molly rested her head against his chest. “Do you want your gift now?”

“You shouldn’t get me gifts.”

“It’s too late for that. Do you want it now, or in front of everyone?”

His cheeks reddened. “Will it embarrass me in front of your mother?”

“Quite likely.”

“Give it to me now, then.”

Molly got off the bed and went into the other room, a little self-conscious of her nakedness. She rummaged through the bag until she found his gift, then went back in to find he’d taken off his clothes, too. Momentarily, she felt the pangs of desire through her sleepiness, but chiefly worry that he’d be disappointed by her present.

“It’s not sexy,” Molly said as she handed over the wrapped gift.

“I’ll be the judge of that.” He tore off the paper to reveal a hardcover book--”Murder is my Business,” by the photographer Weegee. Sherlock looked positively giddy.

“You’re getting better at deducing. Have to be more obtuse next time.”

“Thank you?” She put her hands behind her back.

He set the book on the floor, along with her dress. Then he tugged Molly onto the bed. 

“We can be soft and slow, if you like,” He murmured in her ear. “I think I’ve exorcised whatever demon caught hold of me before.”

“I’m exhausted,” she kissed him. When she finished, he rested his forehead on hers. 

“So am I.” He kissed her neck. “But this has been my nicest Christmas. I didn’t want it to end.”

Molly tried not to show her surprise. All of her Christmasses flickered through her mind; the year she got her first bicycle, her father playing Santa, her first Christmas as an auntie. Even though the holiday had not been the same since her father’s death, until then, Christmas had always been the highlight of her year. Always. The worst one had been the first after her father’s death, and of course, the other one she’d spent with Sherlock. She couldn’t imagine what his boyhood had been like.

She kissed him again, covering the look on her face. 

“This is just the start, Sherlock. I’ll make it better for you next year, when we’re married.”

“Molly Hooper,” he whispered. He stroked her hair, kissing her temple. They laid down together and kissed until they both fell asleep.


	2. Christmas Day--December 25

Christmas Day, December 25

Sherlock scrubbed his chest and then rinsed off the sudsy froth under the shower of water. Alfie and Paloma had some posh, strange soap. According to the paper wrapping he’d removed when he went in to wash up, it contained the scents of the holidays. If the picture on the front was any indication, he was going to smell like gingerbread in a snow storm. 

He peeked out of the curtain and saw Molly brushing her teeth. She still had her robe on and it was only quarter to eleven. Carolyn had said they usually did Christmas brunch at one, which meant they had a little time. Molly spit in the sink and it sent a tremor through his spine--he found it equal parts disgusting and erotic. All of sex, he had found, was turning out to be this way. He wondered what was wrong with him, but he’d been wondering that for years. Why should this new experience of sustained intimacy be any different?

Molly wiped her mouth and then took out her lipstick and her liner, both the color of fresh blood. She drew the line on top so carefully with the liner, trying to make them look fuller. After he’d insulted her mouth for being too small, she’d begun doing that and he’d felt something every time he saw her with her slightly enhanced lips. 

Now he recognized that feeling as shame. Despite all that was sane and good in the world, he wanted to compound that shame tenfold. Molly finished lining her lips, filled them, then put on a layer of deep, deep red. 

“Molly,” he said.

She looked up, catching his eye in the mirror, which was fogging. “What is it, darling?”

“Can I smudge your lipstick?”

She smirked. “I’m not sure we have time.”

He shut off the taps and pushed the curtain back. Her smirk turned into a daffy grin.

“But you are gorgeous,” she said.

He shrugged and nodded. 

Laughing, she launched herself at him. He kissed her mouth, destroying the cupid’s bow she’d just painted. 

He sank to his knees and kissed along her neck, leaving a smear of crimson in his wake. She undid the belt of the robe. He marked her nipples with his mouth, strafing them with his lips and tongue until they were chafed in red lipstick.

“Let’s go to the bed.” He kissed her again, rubbing off the rest of her lipstick. He led her back to the bedroom. She let her robe drop in a pile on the floor and scooted onto the mattress. 

The compulsion to suggest something even more untoward to her wouldn’t yield. He sat beside her and cupped her face with his hand, then ran his thumb over her lower lip. 

“Your mouth’s too small, it’s never going to fit around my cock.”

Her breath hitched and he didn’t know if it was from hurt or desire.

He kissed her neck and her cheek, her mouth again. “I bet you’re just as delicate, just as sweet and small inside, aren’t you? I can tell, you’ll be too small to take my cock. I’ll have to go slowly with you, won’t I?”

She nodded, a genuine smile spreading across her face.

“Have you ever had a man inside you before?”

“Never.” 

Her ability to lie, so innocently, so sweetly made him even harder. 

“Try sucking my fingers first.” He slid his thumb into her mouth. It felt taboo, especially given all the terrible things his hands had done. He took his thumb out of her mouth and kissed her again. She rested her palms on his thighs, waiting. Normally she wasn’t passive, but she seemed to want to play her part, so she sat waiting for him to have his terrible way with her.

He pressed her shoulders back into the mattress and covered her with his body. She opened her legs to his hand. He pressed into her wet labia, and found the firm nub of flesh. She moaned and closed her eyes tight.

“I shouldn’t be allowed to touch you,” he whispered, realizing it wasn’t some role he played. He really didn’t think he should be allowed to see her like this, to be so close and to dip his hand in to breech her body.

“But I want you to. Sherlock, please don’t stop.”

He thought of improvising some line about pirates or her husband the viscount, but instead he just said, truthfully, “I love you.”

It was so much easier to say that to her when they were like this. When they weren’t somehow the words got stuck in his throat. He’d said it to her easily when he’d proposed. Every other time they had to be naked.

He held her close, and rubbed her clitoris in tight, little circles until she gasped his name and tried to buck him off. He slid his fingers inside her, felt her body undulate and pulse. She calmed down and he kissed her blurry lips.

“Are you ready to stretch your mouth around my cock?” he asked.

“I’ll try. You have to tell me if you like it.”

“I promise, I’ll show you.”

He lied down on the bed, his legs far apart. She positioned herself between them on her knees. She bent down, and took his erection in her mouth. 

“That’s so good-you’re perfect.” He stroked her hair while he moved in and out of her mouth. In a few second’s time he’d forgotten to pretend.

“I love you,” he said, again.

He said it again and again until he finished. It felt like falling, but instead of the hard impact there was only her. She caught him again, this time on her tongue.

Molly laid down next to him and put her head on his shoulder. He was still panting.

“That was filthy” she said.

“In a nice way?” he asked.

“A very nice way.”

“Give me ten minutes, and I will shatter your senses. I just need to catch my breath.”

“MMmm.” 

Unfortunately, in less than two minutes, both of them fell asleep. 

***

Molly hadn’t meant to fall asleep again. They were supposed to have had a quickie then gone up to the big house to do the Christmas brunch and then off to John and Mary’s to exchange presents, but then somehow, the quickie took a turn for the better and they’d passed out, exhausted. It made sense since neither of them had gotten much sleep all week and especially the night before. That didn’t make it any better when Molly woke up to a knock on the bedroom door and noticed the shadows cast by the light streaming through the windows were far too long.

“Molly?” Paloma asked from behind the closed door. “Is everything okay?”

“I’m sorry, it’s so late.” Molly scrambled out of bed. Sherlock lied there, the blankets covering him, lipstick smeared all over his mouth in a garish bloom. She pulled the covers off of him, and the cold air shocked him awake.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, defiantly. 

She mouthed the words--We missed brunch!!!

He tumbled out of bed and started looking for clothes. 

“Is Sherlock with you? He is not in his room.”

“Um, yes. We’re fine,” She struggled to pull on her robe, nearly ripping the silk. 

Somehow, Sherlock threw on his dressing gown first and went to the door. 

“Wait!” Molly shouted.

He already had opened the door to Paloma, who took in the harried scene on his face. Paloma laughed outright.

“We’ve all got a late start today,” Paloma poked her head in to see Molly tightening her belt. Molly was fairly certain she also had the scarlet mark on her mouth, because Paloma chuckled again. “The boys didn’t even wake until two, and when we tried to prepare the meal, our stove would not work. It’s very old, like the house. At any rate, our little party has fizzled, but then, it seems you had a pleasant time despite this.”

“We did,” Sherlock said, bowing slightly. He winked at Molly and she burst out laughing. 

“I will leave you to get dressed.” Paloma began to close the door. Molly went swiftly across the room and stopped her. 

“Paloma, we were planning on telling everyone at brunch that we’re together,” Molly said. “It’s not a secret--it never was one. We’re engaged.”

“Congratulations.” She put her hand on Molly’s shoulder, then smiled, clearly delighted. “This will cause quite le scandale with your cousin.” 

“He’ll get over it,” Sherlock said.

“You know the Hooper clan--very jealous,” Paloma said to Sherlock. Molly didn’t like the conspiratorial look Sherlock gave her cousin’s wife.

“Molly once expressed envy for a corpse because she assumed I’d had a previous relationship with the deceased.”

Paloma giggled, and Molly’s stomach started to hurt.  
“Come on, be nice,” Molly said.

He looked down at her, with his ridiculous, streaky red mouth. 

“You know very well I’m not nice.” 

Molly may have rolled her eyes. They agreed to come up to the main house after they showered and packed, to give the boys their presents and tell everyone their news. Molly showed Paloma out, locking the door after her. By the time she got back to Sherlock, he’d already washed his face and gotten dressed. She was only a touch disappointed. He looked up from his suitcase as she walked in the bedroom.

“You’ll need another shower and please skip the lipstick this time. If you don’t we may never get out of here,” he said. 

***

Molly’s family took the news of the engagement with less enthusiasm than Sherlock had hoped. Alfie looked worried, though he managed a handshake and a clap on the back. Carolyn, who’d genuinely liked him the day before, cooled instantly. She fought to hold a smile while Paloma passed around champagne flutes. He thought that probably had to do with his addiction issues and perhaps, the fear that he’d never sire any grandchildren with her daughter. Molly must have said something about his reluctance to have children. The only member of the household fully on board with the news, aside from Paloma, was Nico. Sherlock worried Nico’s approval might actually work against him with Molly. 

Mycroft had let them borrow a car to take to Alfie’s house. As they drove back, Sherlock wondered what his brother throught about his relationship with Molly Hooper. Mycroft pretended he didn’t know they were a couple, but of course he knew everything about them. Sherlock had found at least one of the bugs Mary planted--she’d defiled the skull he kept on his mantel no less. He’d left the device in place to assure her cover. So, his brother knew about the engagement, the slow courtship and the domestic routine. He must have known about the sex, too, but he always had the good taste not to mention anything. At least Mycroft no longer had the misconception that Sherlock was too afraid to have sex, not that it mattered. The consolation of that was so small as to be nonexistent. 

He glanced at Molly. She had that warm, contented look on her face that he associated with naps and sunbeams. It reassured him. He’d been so worried about ruining the holiday for her again. 

They were off to John and Mary’s to celebrate the last of Christmas together. He had half forgiven Mary for being Mycroft’s spy. It was impossible for him not to like her. She was too fun and too clever to ignore and, he sensed, she could be very bad in a way he admired. It was the same way Molly could be bad and he was glad John had someone like that to care for him.

Molly would risk it all on a person, or an idea if she thought it was right. When she bet, she put her whole bank behind the wager. In the desperate hours of the early morning, Molly Hooper would be the one to help him hide a body. She’d be the one to clean his wound, she’d be the one to sew him up. She’d be his alibi. When all his friends abandoned him, she’d be the one to unlock the door to him, take him in her arms and her bed and her mouth. She’d be his Mona Lisa, with the countenance of a saint, forever keeping his secrets behind her little smile. 

God save the man who didn’t have someone like Molly Hooper, because if Molly wasn’t his, she’d be terrifying. When he thought of how close he came to losing her entirely, it made him shudder.

“You’ve a funny look on your face,” she said.

“No, I haven’t.”

“What were you thinking about?” 

“Did you plan on telling John and Mary tonight?” he asked.

“I think Mary already knows and I think she’s shared her suspicions with John.”

“Do you want to confirm their suspicions?”

Molly got a text, saving her from answering him. She looked at her screen. “It’s John. Mary’s gone into labor.”

Sherlock cranked the steering wheel and turned them around, so they were headed to the hospital. Luckily, there were no other cars on the street, but he had a feeling he’d done it anyway even if there were.


	3. December 26--Rosie's Birthday

Rosie’s Birthday, December 26

John Watson had never been more exhausted in all his life. Mary’s labor had gone on for nearly twenty-four hours, and then Rosie had to be treated for jaundice. Molly and Sherlock sat on either side of him before a cafeteria table littered with half-drunk Styrofoam cups of tea and crumpled sandwich papers. Molly had stopped reassuring him about the routine nature of jaundice after he’d snapped at her that he was a doctor, too. Now she was silent, as was his best friend. He’d only held his daughter once since her birth before she was whisked away. Mary was finally sleeping, and he wanted to let her. 

Sherlock took Molly’s hand under the table and she smiled. John had noticed little moments of affection between them, and the ring that Molly wore on a chain around her neck. He also noticed that Sherlock no longer seemed to need to draw every eye in the room. There was no need for an audience now that he had Molly. 

“You two should go home. They won’t release Rosie or Mary until tomorrow,” John said.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked. “Come back to Baker Street with us. You can sleep in your old room. Molly never uses the bed anyway.”

Molly grimaced and let go of Sherlock’s hand.”That’s how we’re telling him?”

“Look at his face, Molly, he figured it out ages ago.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked from Molly, to John. “John, Molly and I are getting married, if she ever agrees to put on the ring I gave her, and I’d like you to be the best man. At the imperceptible pace we’ve set, Rosie will be walking by the time I finally drag Dr. Hooper down the aisle, so your daughter can be the flower girl.”

“Sherlock,” Molly put her head in her hands. 

“Congratulations?” John laughed, giddy from lack of sleep. “Or should I wish you good luck?”

“You’ll be best man, then? I won’t ask you to give a speech. I know you don’t like those.”

“Of course,” John sipped his tea and realized it had gone cold. 

Sherlock grinned and poor Molly did not. Her reluctance was plain on her face.

“Molly, you not keen on me standing up for Sherlock?”

“I’m glad you can.”

“Don’t look it,” John said. “Ah, this tea is ghastly.”

“John, you know it’s not that,” Molly said.

“She’s afraid of what her family will think of her marrying a junkie. You weren’t afraid of them knowing you were marrying a moron, Molly, so I don’t know what the difference is.”

Molly choked down a sob and stood up from the table. “I’m going to go check on Mary.”

She touched John’s shoulder before she walked out of the cafeteria. Sherlock took out his phone and either was looking at it or intently pretending to do so. John sighed. He rubbed his eyes, which he was sure looked puffy, the skin underneath crinkled and dark like well-read newsprint. 

“Swept her off her feet?” John asked.

Sherlock laughed, bitterly. “She’s ashamed of me.”

“She’s not, I can tell that much. Just give her some time.”

“I’ve given her four months.”

“You asked her four months ago?”

He shrugged. “In a fashion. I told her I’d changed my mind on the way back from the jewelry store and that I wasn’t going to ask her. Then I gave her the ring anyway.”

“And you wonder why she’s been reluctant to shout it from the rooftops?”

“Could be,” Sherlock said, apparently considering the circumstances of the proposal for the very first time. “We hadn’t so much as kissed before I asked her, so she insisted on that.”

“Sounds reasonable. Any issues there?”

“Is that your way of asking whether I find sex alarming?”

John nodded. He’d been curious about this bit, since Janine, and really before. As his roommate, he’d never seen Sherlock with a woman, or a man. He’d never seen him sneak off with a laptop and a bottle of lotion. All of his tension seemed to express itself through violence and acute oddness. 

“You never talk about Mary that way,” Sherlock said.

“Mary would kill me, that’s why.”

Sherlock sipped his own awful tea. “What do you want to know?”

“Is Molly your first?”

“No.”

“Irene?”

“No.”

“Then who?”

“A girl at university who worked in the library. We ate lunch together for two years. Like Molly--she had no idea I was asking her out until we were on the date.”

“How long did that last?”

“Not long. She moved back to Hyderabad after graduation to marry a fiance she hadn’t seen since infancy.” 

“Broke your heart, then?”

“Nothing like that. I knew her situation. She wanted a last look at what her life could’ve been if she’d stayed.”

“After that?”

“I shut it off. ‘Vivre sans désir.’”

“That’s handy, I suppose.”

“Yes, could have saved you a bit of stress today.”

John laughed. “I’ll take the stress, thank you.”

“Really? You’re not petrified right now?”

“Of course I am, but it’s worth it. Her little face, and her feet. My wife made a whole person, and I know you’ll say it’s boring and literally everyone has come about that way, but it’s miraculous.”

“You’re right, I was going to say that.”

John grinned and tsked in the back of his throat, as though Sherlock had utterly shocked him again by simply acting as John had expected. 

“Then why now?” John asked.

“What now?”

“Sex, and whatever else with Molly. Why now?”

“Just wanted to make her happy at first.” Sherlock grinned, feral. “Then I remembered why people do it.” 

***

When John and Sherlock got back to Mary’s hospital room, she was sleeping peacefully. Molly sat in the corner, holding Rosie in her arms. Molly looked just as serene as the baby, until they came in the room. Then she nervously handed Rosie off to John, who was just as eager to take her as Molly was to give her away. 

John shooed them out of the room, refusing once again to stay the night at the apartment. They went down the elevator, through the parking garage and to the car. Molly didn’t speak during the ride home and he knew it wasn’t just sleepiness. When they went up to their room, his room, in Baker Street, she took her clothes off indifferently. She always took her clothes off with an air of carelessness and indifference--not one for the art of the tease, at least not that way. This night, she seemed to be undressing in an extraordinarily perfunctory way. The air was heavy with all she didn’t say, so heavy he thought breathing next to her would make his lungs burst.

“Are you angry I told John?” he asked after he clicked off the lights. Darkness seemed to help with uncomfortable subjects. 

“No.” Molly got under the covers and pulled them up to her chin.

He pursed his lips and got in beside her. “You want a baby, don’t you? I’ve been afraid of this. Eyeing up those little shirts and onesies. You learned to knit for Rosie’s baby blanket, why learn a new skill if you don’t expect to use it again? Well, I’ll let you have one, if you absolutely need it, but there my lines are drawn.”

Molly laughed. “One if I need it?”

“Well, if it goes well, maybe another, but what are the chances of it going well with my genes in the mix? Unless I’m sterile from all the drugs--we couldn’t adopt, no sane judge would allow me to parent a child. I suppose we could use John’s semen, his sperm seems motile.”

“Oh my God! No.”

“You don’t want a baby with me?”

“You’re serious...darling, I might, if it’s meant to be, but I certainly don’t want John’s baby with you. If we never have children, I’d be happy with you.”

He rolled around in bed and snatched her into his arms. “Then what’s the matter with you?”

“I’m not ashamed of you. For so long it felt the other way round.”

“You? Don’t be stupid.”

“See--that. Calling me stupid.”

“That’s not what I meant. The problems...my public face. Us. Never mind.”

“Please explain.”

“It isn’t to do with you. My reticence concerning you. It was always myself, never you. If you’d been anyone, it would have been the same.” 

“Anyone?”

“Don’t put words in my mouth, Molly Hooper.”

She leaned in close and kissed his cheek before she whispered in his ear, “I saw Mycroft at the hospital.”

“Cut his Christmas plans short.” That was unusual, but not unheard of--Mycroft played the part of the dutiful son, but he chafed under their parents scrutiny just the same. Sherlock knew he ought to care but his brother’s cloak and dagger seemed incredibly dull when Molly lay naked next to him. He cupped her breast, and she trembled. For a moment he thought she would ask him to stop because he knew she was tired and their argument hardly seemed resolved. Instead, she flipped him over onto his back. Molly straddled him. She ground her hips down on him. He drove his head back into the pillow and gritted his teeth. 

“How are you already hard?” Molly whispered.

“You.”

She gripped the base of his cock and slid down on his length. The sensation made him cry out. 

“You belong to me,” she said. “Say it.”

He swallowed hard. “I belong to you.”

Sherlock held onto her thighs and let her ride him, her hair tossing around like mad. She started to breathe rapidly and moved faster. He tried to touch her, but she pinned his hands down. 

“You’re mine,” she said.

“I’m yours,” he whispered.

She started to shake on top of him. The walls of her vagina clutched and sucked at him, and he spilled his inferior seed inside of her. Her arms quaked from the effort of holding him down before they buckled. She collapsed on his chest. He combed her long hair back from the crown of her head with his fingers. 

“We’ll go get the license tomorrow,” she said.  
***

Mary Morstan Watson woke up with a chill in a silent hospital room. She looked around, frantically looking for her baby Rosie or her husband John. Instead she saw Mycroft Holmes standing at the foot of the gurney on which she lay. 

“Are you cold, Radha?” he asked.

Immediately, Mary knew something was wrong. Since her wedding, Mycroft had refused to be alone with her. It pained him, or perhaps he didn’t trust himself with her. Everyone assumed he was made of ice, but his heart beat just like anyone else’s--she’d found that out the hard way. If he’d cross his own code of conduct, the situation must have been dire.

She arched her brow. “Yes. Where am I?”

Mycroft walked over to a chest of drawers, opened it and took out a blanket. He returned to her and spread the white blanket over her body. “You’re on a newly renovated floor. There are no patients here yet, but I asked that you might be moved so that you and I may have a chat.”

“Regarding?”

“Apparently Arnold Salter has been murdered. Tortured in his flat the whole of Christmas day.”

“No.” Mary sat up and winced at the soreness of her body. “My mother?”

Mycroft reached out to her, then pulled his hands away and crossed his arms.  
“Out of the country already. Serbia.”

“We’ll need to do an extraction, Radha.”

“I love John.”

“I know. But it must be done. You knew this could happen.”

“But why now?”

***

Sherlock woke up and several realizations hit him at once. The sun shone through the window, he was alone, he was better-rested than he’d been in a week and he could hear Molly’s quiet voice in the next room. She sounded upset.

He got up and put on his dressing gown. Sherlock poked his head out into the hall. Molly stood in the living room with a phone pressed to her ear. Her long hair was washed and plaited down the side. She wore a white, fuzzy sweater that fell down to her knees over some pale slacks and shirt. These clothes were particular favorites of his for their texture, and it was clear that she put them on in anticipation of being touched by him. Half of her make up had been done--the foundation all over and the eyeliner on one eye, which told him she’d been interrupted by the phone call. The eyeliner ran down her face, because she was in tears. She turned toward the sound of him walking down the hall, and time seemed to slow. Something terrible had happened. When he’d recall the moment, he’d remember her looking like an angel mourning.

He reached her and put his arm around her.

“Rosie?” he asked, thinking how delicate the baby had seemed, with her translucent skin.

“Mary,” Molly mouthed, then spoke in a normal voice into the phone. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. Hold on John.”

She ended the call and looked up at him. Even if he hadn’t been the greatest detective in the world, he could have read her face.

“Mary is dead,” he said.

***

The next few hours blurred together as they made their way to the hospital, collected John and Rosie and brought them back to John’s flat. Someone had tied pink and gold Mylar balloons to the front railing. When John saw them he let out the most horrible laugh. If Sherlock had a gun, he would’ve shot the offending balloons--it was good he didn’t. 

He practically carried his friend into the house and deposited John on a couch. Molly saw to Rosie and somehow produced a pot of tea and sandwiches at the same time. She showed her love the way she always did--with a constant blur of motion. He recognized it all from his own bout of self-inflicted withdrawal sickness. Somehow she’d gotten all the instructions on the baby’s care and feeding, the car seat functionality and the location of the bassinet, all while Sherlock had fought to stay in the present moment for John and not retreat to his mind. 

Molly tried to put Rosie in John’s arms, but he couldn’t hold her. Seeing this immediately, she gave Rosie to Sherlock.

“Support her head.” Molly made sure he did it correctly, head in the crook of the elbow. His success rewarded him the first smile Molly had made that day. Then her smile retreated. “I have to make the phone calls.”

“Phone calls?” Sherlock first gave the yawning baby and then the woman he loved a look of confusion. 

“Next of kin. Let them know the bad news. Then the death certificate and the utilities. There’s so much paperwork with dying,” Molly kissed him on the cheek before she went back to the kitchen. 

Sherlock walked around the living room, the weight of Rosie in his arms. John looked like a ghost; he held his mug of tea, but it tilted dangerously. Sherlock plucked the mug from John’s hand before it spilled and set the tea on the table beside the couch. John didn’t seem to notice any of his friend’s heroics. Rosie looked up at him with alert eyes. She had no idea her world was falling apart. To her, this state of misery was all she knew of living.

“Wise baby. Get a headstart knowing now,” Sherlock murmured.

She seemed to like his voice, because she stilled and closed her eyes. When he stopped talking, she wriggled and opened them again. Babies liked lullabies--even with his limited knowledge, he knew that to be true. He tried to think of songs he knew, but he’d deleted most of the ones with lyrics. The only suitable thing was to hum her a waltz, which he did while he paced in time around the room. 

“They wouldn’t let me see her body,” John said, suddenly.

“Why not?”

John didn’t look at Sherlock when he spoke. His gaze seemed to be focused on some point in the recent past.

“Wheeled her into surgery and then she died on the table. I wanted to see her and they kept putting me off, saying she needed to be transported to the morgue first. Then they told me I should have been able to see her before, that it was a mistake.”

“Molly can get you into the morgue. Molly practically lives at the morgue.” Sherlock bounced Rosie, just a little, because the raised voices disturbed her. 

“They moved her body to a funeral parlor.”

“You can move it back. Request an autopsy. Molly could do it--she’s the finest at Bart’s. If there was some hospital error, Molly would know.”

“That’s--that would be unbearably gruesome coming from someone other than you.”

“I’m sorry--”

“No. Please, ask her to take care of my wife.”

Sherlock went into the kitchen. Molly sat at the table there, papers spread around her. She looked up at him.

“Does Rosie need a change?”

“Possibly. I can do that. I need you to get Mary’s body back from the funeral parlor where it was sent and do the autopsy.”

“Why would it have been sent to a funeral parlor without John’s consent?”

“We’re trying to figure that out.”

“I can have it sent to Bart’s. Give me the number.”

“It should be in that packet of discharge materials. Where are the nappies?”

“In the bag by the bassinet.”

Sherlock went back into the living room. The nappies were in the bag on the floor. He spread a blanket out so that he wouldn’t have to place Rosie on the carpet, and proceeded to unsnap the legs of her onesie. He’d never changed a diaper in real life, but he watched several tutorials online, and knew to place a clean diaper underneath the dirty before removing it, in case of an accident. This information proved useful, because Rosie relieved herself as soon as he took the first diaper off and the second diaper acted to contain the mess. He finished cleaning and diapering the baby. He cleaned his hands as well. Sherlock looked at John.

“The hardest part is these buttons,” Sherlock said, as he fussed with the bottom of the onesie. 

John didn’t answer, he’d gone dark inside his head again.

Sherlock scooped up little Rosie and followed Molly’s raised voice.

“You haven’t had her long enough to cremate her body! It takes three bloody hours to reduce flesh and bone to ash--there’s no way I could pick her up now! This is a bloody outrage, and I will testify to that in court!” She looked at the phone like she wanted to hurl it against the wall. Whoever had been on the other line hung up on her.

Molly positively vibrated with rage, her eyes had somehow gone darker than normal and she’d bared her even, little teeth like a challenged fox. 

“This is a cover up, Sherlock and I should know--I perpetrated one. He told me I could pick up her cremated remains now. He hasn’t had her long enough, let alone around a holiday when they’re short-staffed.”

“You said you saw Mycroft at the hospital last night.” 

Sherlock and Molly looked at one another, jumping to the same conclusion at once.

“Take the baby--I have to find my brother.” Sherlock carefully handed Rosie off to Molly. When the exchange was complete, Molly kissed his lips.

“Come back to me,” Molly said.

Sherlock turned around and nearly bumped into John. 

“I’m going with you,” John said. 

Sherlock nodded. If he were in John’s place, no one could stop him from going. Together, the two of them left. 

Outside on the sidewalk, the cold air hit them. John went to his car, but Sherlock grabbed his arm and shook his head. 

Where they were going, they didn’t want to be recognized.

***

Mycroft had made sure Radha was sedated when she was extracted. He knew she would fight otherwise.

She lay in the dingy bed. Mycroft sat in a folding chair beside her, wearing a shiny, brown track suit and a ball cap low over his eyes. He’d dressed like a lot of the men in that neighborhood, and had blended easily. Everything in his life was situated to avoid places like this. There was yellow linoleum throughout the flat, and beaded curtains instead of doors. Mycroft wanted to scrub his hands just for being there. 

This entire situation was his fault--he’d succumbed to sentimentality and allowed her to have the kind of life he never could have given her. Someone had recognized her, despite the plastic surgery, weight loss and blond hair. They’d allowed the pictures out because it would have been suspicious otherwise.They’d need to change her face again once she’d recovered--change her into someone he couldn’t identify to protect her from them and from him. At that moment, she’d put in brown contacts and covered her curly, golden hair in a long, brown wig. It dimmed her, but not enough. His heartbeat still rose in her presence.

“What is your real name, Radha?” He asked.

“Why?”

“You know mine.”

“Let me keep one secret back.” 

“I can find out.”

“But you don’t want to find out that way, or you’d have done it.” Radha sat up, an irresistible smile on her face. 

The door of the grubby flat opened and Mycroft was thoroughly prepared to murder whoever entered the room. However, the intruder was his brother and he’d brought Mary Morsten’s husband with him. Mycroft considered murder again.

“Mary?” John ran over to the woman he’d married and surrounded her in his arms. He began weeping into her shoulder. Radha didn’t speak, or cry. She just held him.

Sherlock appraised Mycroft coolly. “What have you done?”

“Saved her life. She can’t stay here. There’s a credible threat, brother. It would end in disaster for her daughter and your friend.”

“I could protect her.” Sherlock tried to stare him down. It might have been intimidating if Mycroft hadn’t been himself.

“If I can’t, you certainly can’t, brother mine,” Mycroft said.

“Let me go with her--the baby and I,” John said. Mycroft couldn’t believe that touch of loyalty. Perhaps John didn’t know he’d been lied to for the entirety of his relationship with the mother of his child. Perhaps he didn’t care.

“I can’t take Rosie where I’m going,” Radha looked in John’s eyes.

“Then just me. I can’t take care of her without you, I can’t raise her.”

“John--” Sherlock covered his mouth with his hand and his skin turned a whiter shade of pale. Clearly, he hadn’t expected to lose his favorite pet on this adventure. “You’re not going to abandon your newborn daughter.”

“Rosie needs you,” Mary said.

“She needs her mother. When you were dead I couldn’t look at her, Mary, I couldn’t function. I’ll come with you and when it’s safe we’ll be together again.”

“It doesn’t work that way. Mary isn’t like my brother--she can’t make a grand reappearance and neither can you.” Mycroft sneered at John’s weakness. He’d lost Radha so many times, immolated himself on her pyre again and again. John couldn’t even bear losing her once.

“We’ll find a way back to her,” Dr. Watson said.

“You’re not giving my daughter up for adoption, John Watson,” Radha said.

“I will take care of her,” Sherlock said, quietly. “Despite the irony of the situation, I think Molly will help.”

Mycroft had to suppress a chuckle as he recalled his brother’s and Molly’s conversation from the night before--the conversation that he was not supposed to have heard. He reminded himself to read more rather than obsessing about his younger brother’s life. Even catching a television program would have been better than his current course of voyeurism. 

“That’s better than strangers, but I still don’t want this,” Radha said.

“I don’t want it, either. You’ve forced my hand,” John said.

“And you’ve probably led them right to her,” Mycroft said.

“Don’t insult me,” Sherlock snapped. 

“John, this will be ugly, and you’ll always be looking over your shoulder. You might never see our daughter again.”

“I will. We both will. I’ll go where you go.”

That settled things. Mycroft almost felt sorry for his brother--except if he went that route of succumbing to feelings, he’d only feel sorry for himself.

“What do you say...Mary?” Mycroft hated using that common name to describe his goddess of love and home. 

She leveled him with her unnaturally brown eyes.

“If he wants to follow, I’d ask for you to help us. It’s your decision.”

“I will. For your sake then.”

“Sherlock,” Radha said. “Take care of my daughter.”

***

Molly paced John’s flat, holding the baby in her arms. She’d called off her shift because she couldn’t get hold of John or Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had gone on a vacation with her sweetheart--someplace tropical with its own spiced rum drink. She’d even tried to contact Mycroft, but he didn’t respond. The Christmas tree made her miserable to look at and she thought of Rosie’s future without a mother, alternately imagining ways Sherlock could be laid out dead, on her slab, in an anonymous gutter, rotting away in a field. 

At a quarter past midnight, he came into John’s flat. Molly had just gotten the baby down and fallen asleep on the couch herself. She sat up when she he heard the door open and he looked at her with such guilt, she wondered if he was slinking back from another woman’s house.

“Where’s John?” she asked. “Is he okay?”

He took his coat off and hung it by the door. His clothes were odd--sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. It made him look like the boy in her graduating class who was still convinced he had traction as a rapper. 

“Something’s happened--you have your excuse now, if you were ever looking.”

Molly tried to tamp down her panic. She hopped off the couch, marched over to him and grabbed his arm a hairsbreadth too hard.

“What happened?”

“Mary is alive, on the run. John has decided to go with her. They asked me and I agreed to care for Rosie.”

“How long are they going to be gone?” 

“Indefinitely. This is not a temporary situation. John worried I’d never be granted status as a special caregiver given my history. We were lucky. For some reason, they hadn’t filled it out before Mary--”

“Filled what out?”

“Birth certificate. John put my name on the birth certificate--in the eyes of the law, I am her father.”

“What?”

“It isn’t true--I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s not the part--I know you wouldn’t. Besides, if you had it would have been before we were together. I know you wouldn’t do that to John.”

Sherlock hugged her. It was the first time since he’d entered the room that he betrayed any emotion.

“I didn’t know if you’d believe me,” he said quietly. 

He kissed her and she almost forgot how frightened she was, and how overwhelmed she felt. She ended the kiss, and moved out of the circle of his arms. Molly began to pace.  
He watched her cautiously, his eyes moving and his body entirely still.

“You’re angry, aren’t you?” he asked.

“Yes--at John and Mary.” 

“It’s not his fault. If you and I were in the same situation-”

“I’d insist you stay with our baby. I’d make you.” Molly put her hands on her hips. “We don’t have a choice, do we? Rosie’s our responsibility now.”

“She’s mine. I told you, you have your out now.”

“No I don’t. I don’t even remember when I had an out with you.” She sat down on the couch. “It’s all different now. We’ll have to make plans for her caring. Do you want to keep Baker Street?”

“For now. I can take care of her during the day. My cases have never been about income, you know that.”

“Won’t you get bored?” The question had more weight behind it because of what he got up to when he was bored. He rubbed the crease of his inner elbow.

“I’m usually bored. Your mother said she wanted to move here if you had a baby. Perhaps now?” He sat down with Molly.

She put her head in her hands. “Mum. She’s going to wonder where Rosie’s come from. Everyone will. Then I’ll have to tell her she’s yours, not mine. On paper you look very bad.”

“That’s been a constant, Molly. Besides, you don’t have to explain. We’ll tell people John’s taken ill after Mary’s death and we’re taking care of Rosie until he comes back. It’s none of their business anyway.”

“You’re right. It’s none of their business.”

She kissed his cheek, trying to be reassuring. He looked at her for a moment, his expression completely unreadable, before he dove toward her and kissed her mouth. There were messy edges to their kisses, and they slid onto the floor, pushing the coffee table out of the way. Sherlock fumbled her trousers off of her and she pulled down his sweats. They had quick, dirty sex on the living room floor, sealing their agreement in deed as in word. Months of trying not to wake Mrs. Hudson came in handy--the baby slept through it. Three hours later, Molly woke up with Sherlock asleep on top of her and Rosie balling in her bassinet.

She couldn’t help wondering what the new year would bring.


	4. New Year's Day-January 1

New Year’s Day, January 1  
Sherlock clutched a cup of sweet, creamy tea in an elaborately decorated china cup, waiting for his mother. The maid had set him up in the sitting room and served him his tea and some ostentatious little cakes he wasn’t interested in eating. 

At least his mother had agreed to see him. His father contrived a trip into town at the last minute when he heard Sherlock was coming. Sherlock sat awkwardly amid the poufs and frills on the couch. He set the tea down on an enameled tray before he spilled the cup.

Molly had offered to come with him, and to bring Rosie. He’d declined. His mother had always been largely indifferent to babies-- children of all kinds, really. Molly would have had to endure his mother’s scrutiny, and being unassuming and insecure, Mercy Holmes would have clapped onto her like the psychic vampire she was and drained poor Molly until she was a twitching mass of neurosis quivering on the floor. 

He’d been a father for all of five days, but the change to his life had been immediate. Everything was Rosie, everything was about keeping her alive and healthy and happy. He’d become secondary in his own life. Prior to this, he’d thought himself incapable of that level of selflessness. It was how Molly moved through every minute of her day. No wonder she assumed no one noticed she existed. He had to protect Rosie and he had to protect Molly, too, because Molly wasn’t just the other half of his universe, but Rosie’s, too.

The doors opened, and Mercy Holmes walked into the room, wearing a blue lace dress that echoed the color of her eyes. He and his mother had the same eyes and he resented that his best feature had to remind everyone that his mother had been doing it better for years.

“Well, what is it this time?” she asked with a smile. “What do you want from me now? Is it like that time when your therapist wanted us to have a heart to heart? I’ll say now what I said then--I’m not going to coddle you or tell you I’m proud of you when I’m not. Not getting stoned is something most of the populace does every day. It’s nothing to bother me about.”

“It’s not about my sobriety.”

“Good, because enough time has passed that even if I didn’t raise you properly, I should hope you’d have grown up by now.”

“Right then.” Sherlock laughed, but there was no joy in it, and scrubbed his hand over his face. “There are two things. I have a child.”

“Mycroft said she wasn’t yours. I wasn’t surprised given your father’s sex drive, but he said it didn’t belong to the girl you’re marrying, either. I wonder what you’ve got up to?”

Sherlock ignored her question.

“You’ve heard about the wedding, then. That was the other bit of news. Would you care to attend?”

“Wedding? What are you marrying?”

“A human person, not a pillow or a hologram.”

“I meant her title—it doesn’t matter. Did this human person put you up to this? Trying to mend the family rift?”

“No. It was my idea. It’s courtesy, and I wanted to give you the chance in case you were interested.”

“Ah, poor boy.” She sat down in a chair across from him and stuck her finger into the nearest cake. Mercy sucked the glob of icing off her finger. “I did teach you to be polite. That’s the one thing that stuck.”

“I’d say quite a lot of it stuck, like tar on the skin.”

“I suppose you and I never really had a chance.” She closed her eyes for more than a beat. Her voice almost sounded wistful. He let his armor slip and leaned forward.

“What do you mean?”

She looked in his eyes, then away. 

“Before you were born, things were very bad between your father and me. There was someone else I fancied, and I wanted to be with her. Mycroft was ten already, and would be going away to school. Your father and I had one night of nostalgia and a few weeks later, I realized, I was pregnant with you. My lover bowed out because she didn’t want to raise a baby. She wanted me to terminate, but I thought she should love me enough to take anything I handed to her. Her refusal offended me, so I kept you out of spite.”

“That explains a lot.”

“Don’t blame it all on me. You were a very difficult pregnancy. You almost killed me. My heartbeat kept falling throughout the labor. You were born and I couldn’t look at you. I didn’t want to touch you. My mother-in-law came and saved us all. After a while I warmed to you. Your music was extraordinary—mathematically perfect—like you were inventing new ways to gain my love.Then the accident with the well and that boy happened. It was difficult to be near you afterward.”

“Yes, I know, my unsettling qualities.”

“You still have it—that unsettling quality. Years of therapists and schools. My mother even paid to have you taught etiquette and dancing to try and scrub it away. But you never made it easy for us, ever. Then the drugs and the scandal with Phyllidia. Her parents still think you have something to do with her death. They make insinuations. I don’t know what to say.”

“Tell them if they want to blame someone for what happened to Phyllidia, start with themselves.”

“Maybe—well it’s all too late for that. What I’m saying was, I did my best with you.”

“It must be difficult to accept that I am your best,” he said.

“Every day. See yourself out, please. I’ve another appointment.”

“Yes. Good chat.” He scraped his chair out and hopped to his feet.

“Oh, Sherlock. Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year, Mother.”


	5. Sherlock's Birthday--January 6

Sherlock’s Birthday--January 6

Sherlock woke up feeling refreshed. His sense of well-being vanished when he realized Molly was not in bed with him. He looked at his clock and panicked. He’d been asleep for fifteen hours and Rosie hadn’t woken him. 

In the past two weeks, he and Molly had been taking turns getting up with the baby, him taking extra shifts while she was at work. It frightened him that he didn’t hear Rosie making a noise, and he was rarely frightened.

He put on his dressing gown and went into the living room where he found Molly asleep on her chair, with Rosie draped over her shoulder. His heartbeat returned to normal as he saw the baby breathed evenly and smiled sweetly in her sleep. Sherlock lifted the baby up and cradled her against him. His fiancee was so knackered, she didn’t notice he’d taken Rosie away.

Carefully he set the baby on her back in the bassinet. Then he picked up Molly and carried her to their bed. She mumbled when he covered her up and kissed her forehead, but she didn’t wake up. The girls were both in their respective beds. Breakfast was in order--even if it was three in the afternoon.

He went into the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator. Inside was a takeaway container from Angelo’s, with “Happy Birthday!” scrawled in marker over the top. He removed the food and opened it up--Spaghetti Carbonara. Vaguely, he remembered Molly saying they would have a special lunch. She’d been obstinately celebrating his birthday since she figured out the date--one of the benefits of signing his death certificate. It was always in a discreet way, and he was always secretly grateful, not just for her sense of decorum, but for the fact that she bothered at all. Before, she’d just get him a card and slip it into his pocket when he wasn’t paying attention. Now that they were to be married, the card had apparently been upgraded to his favorite food.

He heated up the meal and ate while he read the news. He looked over the police blotter section, and played the old game of seeing how quickly he could solve each of the crimes. Ten minutes, and that was only because he stopped to solve the word jumble at the bottom of the page. He emailed Le Strade his conclusions.

“Easy.” He grinned, and threw the empty spaghetti container in the trash.

He went through his emails. With John and Mary gone, he’d decided to finally give in and have John’s blog published into a book. The proceeds could be put in a trust fund for Rosie, and then John would have the pride of knowing his work had safeguarded her future. The advance on the book was considerable. The downside to this was all the boring email correspondence he had to navigate. He skipped through the details in disgust and forwarded them to Molly. Molly liked the process; she called it reassuring. He was more than happy to reassure her. 

Rosie woke up with a high-pitched squeal. He went over to the bassinet and picked her up.

“Oh it can’t be so bad, my friend,” he murmured against her tiny ear. She soothed a little, the shiny tears suspended on her long eyelashes and her blue eyes impossibly blue.

He mixed her a bottle and fed her straight-away. She was easily contented with the formula, suckling greedily. She finished the bottle and he patted her until she gave him a hearty belch.

“Loud for such a tiny person,” he said.

Then it was time to change her. When her needs were met, she snuggled against him. It made him feel something, something uncomplicated and good. He put on one of Molly’s old records and waltzed around the room with Rosie. She liked when he sang along. He didn’t notice Molly watching him until she cleared her throat. She stood on one leg and leaned on the wall. She only wore one of his t-shirts, and looked rather fetching with her legs bare. He abruptly stopped dancing.

“Are you singing ‘Lola’ to a baby?” Molly asked.

“It’s her favorite.”

“My dad, too.” She came over to them and hugged him, baby Rosie in the middle. “I’m sorry I slept through most of your birthday. It was supposed to be special this year.”

“You know parties make me sick--in fact the over stimulation of any large gathering makes me slightly queasy.”

“I know, but there’s got to be something to make it nice for you.”

“When Rosie goes to sleep, you can get in the shower with me--there’s spit up in your hair and something worse down my back.”

“After that--we could see a film, or maybe one of those escape rooms--”

“Escape room? I don’t want to pay to be insulted, on my birthday no less.”

He moved out of her embrace, and walked Rosie back to her bassinet. The baby didn’t mind being put down. At that stage in development, her object permanence was such that it was probably an entirely new experience for her.

“I’m sorry. It’s hard to know how to get you things.”

Sherlock stroked Rosie’s cheek with his index finger, and she started to root for a nipple. He touched her soft, golden hair and then went into the kitchen to mix up the formula.

“I told you, don’t get me things. If I want something I’ll get it myself.”

He glanced at Molly and saw by the look on her face his response had made her unhappy. Her eyes went distant and her smile had flattened out.

He opened the cupboard above the sink and rifled through it until he found the tub of formula powder. Molly went to the drain board and picked out a plastic bottle. She took a dish rag out and dried it off, then set the bottle in front of him. He dumped the powder in the bottom of the bottle. 

“We could go out for dinner, if you wanted. Martha said she’d watch Rosie.”

“Not hungry, and please don’t offer to bake me a cake. I only like sugar in coffee.” He filled the bottle with warm water, sealed it and shook it up.

He went through the kitchen back to Rosie’s bassinet, which sat in front of the fireplace between their two chairs. She fussed a bit. He picked her up, settled her against him and stuck the bottle in her mouth. She snuffled hungrily. The baby ate so much and grew so much but was still so tiny. The hands were a marvel, even though he saw them every day. John had said Rosie was a miracle and it was true. The idea gave Sherlock a pang to think about. John missing all of this was wrong.

“Molly, get a picture of her for John.”

Molly came into the living room from the kitchen. Her eyes were wet, like she’d been crying.

“What’s happened?” he asked, quietly so he didn’t disturb Rosie.

“Nothing.” She dashed tears from her eyes and took the picture using her phone. He was sure the expression on his face would cause John alarm. Rosie finished her bottle, her eyes fluttering closed. Her spindly eyelashes rested on her cheek. Carefully, he got up and set her down in the bassinet. He took a photo of her sleeping and texted it to the number Mycroft had given him to safely get messages to John. Molly put her hand on his shoulder. 

“Tell me why you’re crying. For once I’ve no energy for games.” 

“You’ve had so much bad in your life. I just want to fix it, and you seem angry when I try.”

“Because you can’t fix years of dismal birthdays,” he said, too loudly. Rosie made a noise. He rested his hand lightly on the baby’s stomach until she quieted. When he was sure Rosie had fallen asleep, he grabbed Molly’s arm and led her back into the kitchen, so as not to wake the baby. They stood by the sink. Molly looked especially wrung out in the bright light, her eyes all red. He didn’t want to say that because it would make everything worse.

“I’m sorry. I just want to make you happy.”

“You make me happy when you don’t try. My birthdays have always been a nightmare. Mother would dress in black and get drunk alone in her room. Father would contrive an excuse to leave. They’d invite every child in the class, even the ones who beat me so badly they broke my arm. Ghastly.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“That’s not what I want. I want it to be like before, with the card and the quiet nod. Maybe not before-I want you in the shower-obviously. Should I say that in front of the baby?”

“She won’t remember.” Molly smiled despite her tears.

“I just want it to be another day with you. That’s more than enough.”

“I have to get over feeling like I let you down.”

“That’s idiotic--you’ve never let me down.”

He loved her for trying and loved her for being there with him. He loved her for acquiescing to the impossible with a determined tilt of her chin. He loved that trying to please him had caused so much consternation in her heart the effort made her cry. He loved all that and hoped she knew, because he found the truth impossible to say.


	6. Chapter 6--Valentine's Day

Valentine’s Day, February 14

Sherlock had never paid attention to Valentine’s Day before. The one time he’d been aware of its existence was with his friend Veeta from the university library, when she’d been sad to have gotten nothing for the day. He’d given her his can of sparkling water as a gesture of goodwill. She’d laughed, thinking he was making a joke.

He didn’t want Molly to laugh. 

Sherlock offered to get reservations at a restaurant, because that’s what was done, but Mrs. Hudson had her own plans and couldn’t sit, as did Molly’s mother, since Valentine’s Day also happened to be her wedding anniversary. He’d suggested they go to a place where Rosie could come, but Molly begged off anyway. Valentine’s Day was her most despised holiday starting in primary school when the boy she had a crush on wrote, U’re too Ugly, on a red construction paper heart and gave it to her in front of the whole class. 

Sherlock had offered to find the boy and destroy his life, but Molly said she couldn’t remember his name. He offered to hypnotize her to reclaim the memory, but she’d finished her toast and ignored the suggestion. Sadism made him ask what Tom had done for their first Valentine’s Day together. Molly had rolled her eyes, much to his delight.

“It’s too vulgar to say aloud,” Molly said, putting her empty tea mug in the sink.

Sherlock shifted Rosie to his other shoulder. “Now you have to tell me.”

Molly wrinkled her nose. “Vibrating panties on a remote control. He’d been so proud of himself, I couldn’t tell him how disgusted they made me. I smashed them in the bathroom so they wouldn’t work.” 

“Did he try to return them?”

“You know he did.”

At least he could do better than that.

As tradition dictated, he had flowers sent to her place of employment--two dozen red roses. If anyone still thought they had a shot with her, the flowers would put them back in their place. That wasn’t the kindest or most romantic thought, but it was truthfully the reason he’d sent them. 

The other two dozen red roses he got her were placed in their bedroom, so no one else could see them. He looked up a recipe for something to cook for dinner. His experience with cooking was limited, but it was basically just chemistry and he assumed it would be fine. 

It was not. 

Rosie had an accident and needed a bath and by the time he realized the room was filling with smoke it was too late to salvage the food. He quelled the fire with the extinguisher John had insisted they store under the sink, while Rosie screamed at the top of her little lungs. He had to throw away Molly’s nice copper bottom pan as well, which was truly a setback. He’d wanted to give her something, not take one of her possessions away. 

Molly texted just as he threw the pan out: “Thank you for the flowers!”

“Dinner is in flames.”

“Did you put it out?”

“Just now.”

“I’ll pick something up.”

He wondered if she was disappointed, but then, he’d already exceeded her expectations with the flowers. 

Rosie dictated his clock. After he finished cleaning the kitchen, he fed Rosie and tried to dance her to sleep, but she stubbornly required another bottle before nodding off. He set her in her bassinet and had thoroughly intended to change out of his pajamas and spit up streaked dressing gown, when he fell asleep in his chair, right next to Rosie. 

***

Molly came home with a bag of groceries to find Sherlock asleep. His hair was matted and he was snoring lightly, his long legs and arms sprawled. He was so different to her now than when she first fell under his spell. Back then he’d seemed untouchable. She loved this version of him; dented up and marked with fingerprints, his heart throbbing on his sleeve. She went into the kitchen and set the bag down. On the table he’d placed one bon bon wrapped in shiny, red foil. Beneath it was a letter written on his formal stationary. She opened it and read:

“Dear Molly,

I hope you don’t begrudge yourself one indulgence. 

Happy Valentine’s Day,  
WSSH”

She smiled, folded the note, and put it in her pocket. 

Molly checked on Rosie, and saw she was breathing normally, and was not too hot or too cold. Then she went to Sherlock and took his hands.

“It’s time to get up so you can go to sleep,” Molly said, softly.

He opened his eyes and started back, seeing her but not seeing. In a moment he settled and focused on her.

“What time is it?”

“Seven. The shops were packed.”

He stretched and then stood, creakily. “I burnt your dinner.”

“Still better than vibrating panties. Why don’t you lie down?”

“Come with me.” 

She let him lead her into the bedroom. The scent of flowers hit her when she opened the door. On the dresser was a vase filled with red roses, the twin of the one on her desk at the morgue. She looked up at him and saw he looked nervous.

“You didn’t have to! Those are so beautiful.”

“But they’re good?”

“Yes.”

He peeled off his dressing gown and the grotty t-shirt underneath. Even if he hadn’t meant it to get her attention, he still did. She touched his bare chest. 

Rosie started crying in the other room. Molly dragged her hand along his chest before she pulled away entirely. “It’s my turn. You sleep.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I’ll wake you up at midnight and shag you senseless,” she said.

He kissed her again, then nuzzled her neck. “I’m holding you to that.”

As she went back to take care of Rosie, she knew she certainly wouldn’t wake him up. He was utterly exhausted and had been doing the bulk of the childcare for the past two days. 

It was still the best Valentine’s Day she’d ever had.


	7. Wedding Day--March 15-(The Ides of March)

Wedding Day--March 15--The Ides of March

Sherlock was paranoid about getting spit up on the shoulder of his tuxedo. He’d brought extra cloths in the diaper bag, just in case and he had also become paranoid about the state of his breath for the post-ceremonial kiss. Four tins of mints rattled in his pockets. 

He wasn’t allowed to see Molly that morning because of tradition, but he was half convinced Meena and Molly’s mother, Carolyn, had stolen her away from the flat to convince her not to marry him. They’d taken Rosie, too. It was strange getting ready in silence, without either of them there. He’d seldom lived in Baker Street alone. 

Initially, he and Molly were just going to go to the magistrate and get it over with, then leave Rosie to stay with Carolyn for a long weekend so they could go to a hotel...somewhere. The where part didn’t matter. The critical ingredients to the honeymoon were to be Molly and a bed. 

Then Molly’s friends and family got involved and suddenly the ceremony wasn’t the end of it, but just the start. Angelo’s was all kitted out with white tulle and flowers. Everyone in Molly’s family would be there, and Meena’s immediate family, too. Some of Molly’s colleagues from work planned to attend as well as her boss, Mike, and Lestrade. If they had a church divided into sides, his only guests would have been Mrs. Hudson and perhaps Mycroft, although his brother hadn’t wanted to commit. Rosie would be his best man, serving in the absence of her father. Afterward, they’d planned a train trip to France. He hoped there would be more hotel room than sight-seeing, but it didn’t seem promising.

It was his wedding day, but it didn’t feel like his at all. It didn’t feel like Molly’s either. Two nights ago, she’d been shaking with nerves at the thought of people looking at her. He’d explained that they were all people who liked or loved her and they’d seen her plenty of times before. That seemed to help a little.

His back was as stiff as a chess pawn as he got out of the cab in front of the magistrate’s office. Mrs. Hudson had agreed to come with him. If Molly didn’t show, at least he wouldn’t be alone. He ran around and opened the door for her, painfully formal given the situation. She grinned.

“How gentlemanly,” She said.

He kissed her cheek and gave her a wink. “Don’t get used to it.” 

They walked up the stone steps to the Westminster Register Office and pushed through the wooden doors. Molly stood there in the lobby in her white dress--she’d gone for something slim and ankle-length, with beaded lace at the top. Her long hair was up and woven with lavender flowers and roses. 

She saw him and her face lit up. His heart beat faster and his palms tingled at the sight of her. He nodded and walked over. Her mother was there in a pink suit, and Meena wore a dress the same color. Rosie had a white, fabric flower in her thin golden hair. Over Rosie’s white dress, Molly had attached a bib that looked like a tuxedo. 

“May I look at you now?” he asked Molly, hoping his sarcasm would cover the genuine nature of his question. He honestly didn’t know if he had defied some sort of tradition by looking at her and wasn’t sure if he should be allowed to look at her or touch her again. She looked like an angel and smelled like a garden. He couldn’t think of what he wanted to do to her, not when her mother stood next to them and Rosie was near, and Molly looked like she should have been gazing benevolently from a prayer card. Consummate was such an elegant word, that did not begin to approach the baseness of his desire.

Meena laughed. “Come on, let’s go.”

Mrs. Hooper didn’t say anything to Sherlock as she pushed Rosie’s stroller--she hardly looked in his direction. Mothers didn’t like him, that was nothing new. She did smile at Mrs. Hudson and asked if she was a relative.

“No dear, I’m just the landlady.”

“You’re more than that, Martha,” Molly said. 

Molly looped her arm through Sherlock’s. He put his hand over hers, reassured by the touch. 

They went into the room where the ceremony was to take place. The room had leaded glass windows and a fireplace with a white mantle--pretty, he supposed. Meena took a few pictures of him and Molly posing side by side in front of the fireplace. 

He’d never been so nervous in his entire life, so much so that the ceremony went by in a blur. The next thing he knew, Molly kissed him in front of everyone, and they were married.

They walked out on the steps and much to his surprise, got pelted with bird seed. A camera flash went off in his face.

“Did we hire a photographer?” Sherlock asked out of the side of his mouth.

“No, that’s my cousin, Jimmy. He’s Alfie’s brother,” Molly said.

“How many cousins do you have?” he asked.

“You’ll see.” She grinned.

***

Molly waited outside Angelo’s for her husband to join her. Sherlock Holmes was her husband. The reality was still such a shock.

All of the guests had already departed and Sherlock just had to settle up the bill. She felt like a spectacle on the sidewalk in her wedding dress, especially when a passing car honked at her. 

The reception had gone off without a hitch, starting with the successful deception of their guests. Most of Molly’s family thought they were going to an engagement party, not a wedding. She’d also kept Sherlock’s name off of the e-vite; there’d been some tabloid interest in Rosie lately, and they’d decided to be careful. The whole intention was to keep everyone from bringing gifts, and it worked. What was lost in potential gravy boats and sheets sets was gained in the form of Molly’s dignity.

She’d given a speech thanking everyone for coming. Sherlock had been right about speaking in front of the group. Her family was much less intimidating than strangers, and most of them still thought of her as Molly the Mouse, so there was an expectation of bravery she had to fulfill. 

The food had been excellent and she’d danced with everyone there, except for Sherlock. Her dad not being there and her new husband’s absolute formality and coldness had been the grit in the gears. At least she’d prepared herself for both causes of anxiety. 

Immediately, Sherlock had broken off from her to converse with Nico in Greek, then Paloma in French. Every time she’d looked at him, he’d been talking to someone new. He’d regaled her cousins Sadie and Bella about his old cases. Somehow he’d even managed to charm her mother while they were feeding Rosie together, because Carolyn laughed and he’d smile. This was good, she reminded herself, even though he had utterly ignored her. At one point Jimmy had ordered Sherlock to stand next to her, just so they could get a picture together. They didn’t do the cake cutting or the first dance, so he’d had no reason to be at her side, except for the fact that they’d been married that day.

Molly clutched her bouquet of white roses and lavender. From the moment they’d finished the ceremony, he’d seemed indifferent to her. She wondered if he regretted his decision to give up his freedom. Perhaps he changed his mind, and only went through with things because he needed a helpmate to care for Rosie. Molly had always been that--helpful, discreet, asking for little and getting less. She reminded herself that he’d been painfully awkward at John’s wedding, too, and tamped down her insecurities.

Sherlock came out of the front of the restaurant and nodded to her just as the cab pulled up. He opened the door for Molly, and she smiled up at him. His face was stony. He ran around and got in on the other side. She set her bouquet in between them. The rose petals had already begun to wilt. 

The driver set off for Baker Street.

“Did you have a nice time?” Molly asked, then immediately felt embarrassed for saying something so trite.

“Did you know your cousin Peter has renal artery stenosis? If he doesn’t have corrective surgery he’ll lose his kidney.”

“He told you that?” Peter was terribly private and she couldn’t imagine him telling that to a man he’d just met.

“No, I deduced him. I’m surprised you couldn’t tell just by looking at the whites of his eyes.”

“I usually work from the inside out.”

“He’s got an appointment scheduled for next week.”

“Well that’s good. You saved his kidney.”

“Yes. Sad about your Cousin Belle’s husband, though. Wandering eye. Don’t worry, I didn’t say that one out loud, but, then, I didn’t need to.”

“He wasn’t even here.”

“And my point’s made.”

Molly looked at his hands; they were folded and he stroked his new wedding ring. She wondered if it already chafed. She looked out the window and tried to keep her insecurity from running away with her. He was always like this under pressure. This was the person she loved and if he hadn’t wanted to marry her, he wouldn’t have done. Except he’d done wild things for singular reasons, up to nearly asking a woman he didn’t love to marry him so he could go into an office building. He did massive things, impossible things in order to accomplish seemingly inconsequential outcomes. His good reasons weren’t like anyone else’s. 

He stopped playing with his ring and took her hand, squeezing her ring.

“Do you think I improved your status with them?”

“What?” she giggled.

“I was an improvement on Tom, wasn’t I? I assumed that’s why you wanted to have a social gathering instead of just the ceremony.”

“It wasn’t to show off. I wanted to include you in my family.”

“That’s different than the way my family operates.” He placed her hand in his lap. She let go of some of her tension, and laid her head on the back of the car seat.

“Did Mycroft call?”

“No. I didn’t expect him to. He’s been in a snit since we took on Rosie.” He held her fingers open, and began stroking the inside of her wrist. It sent shivers through her.

“Should we have done the bit with the cake?” Sherlock asked, his head tilted inquisitively. “It seemed too intimate, eating from your hand in front of people.”

Molly realized that she’d never brought it up to him because she’d thought something similar--the tradition reminded her too much of when he’d been ill and she’d had to feed him. 

“I didn’t think you liked cake.”

“I don’t, but I wanted to do everything properly for you.”

“You don’t have to eat cake to be married to me.”

“Clearly.” He kissed her wrist. “Thank you.”

They got to the flat. Molly paid the driver, who seemed bemused at the two of them, and they left the car. The sun was just starting to set as they walked up the steps. It felt strange not to be carrying Rosie with them. She’d texted John a raft of pictures from the reception of Rosie in her special dress. There was never any response, but she sent them any way, as did Sherlock. Part of her hoped for John to return and the rest of her had begun to dread the day when she’d have to give back their baby.

The living room was just as they’d left things. Tidy, aside from their suitcases packed and set up in the hall for the train trip the next morning. Somehow she thought it would be different, but it all felt the same. She glanced at their bedroom door and wondered how quickly she could get him in there.

“Would you help me with my zipper?” Molly asked.

“Not yet--there’s something I want to give you first. It’s traditional for the groom to make a gift to the bride.”

“You didn’t have to buy me anything--”

“I didn’t. In fact, I had intended to give it to you before, but it wasn’t ready. Just sit in your chair.” 

She walked across the room and sat in her chair, as he asked. He picked up his violin and looked over to her, then gave her a theatrical bow, twirling his bow in her direction.

“I wrote this for you, or rather about you.” He smiled briefly, a flicker over his face, then began to play. 

The tune was mournful and full of longing. It recreated the exact feeling of staring out a window on a rainy day, feeling alone, missing someone she hadn’t ever met. Somehow, the song felt familiar--like it was part of her, like she’d written it herself, except she didn’t know how to write music.

All her insecurities that had flared during the day receded. It felt like he was telling her he understood her, but not with words.

When he finished, she got up and hurried over to him in a rush. She didn’t let him put down his Strad, grabbing him around the waist and kissing him. It seemed more personal than applause. He smiled down at her.

“You like it then?”

“It’s amazing--when did you have time to write with Rosie here?” 

“It was before.”

“When I was at work?”

His smile went away, and a line formed between his eyes. “Before you lived with me.”

“How long before?”

“It was right after Jim from I.T. I saw you eating alone at the lunch room in Bart’s. You weren’t eating, actually. Your sandwich lay untouched. You stared off and the expression on your face called the tune to mind. When you got up to leave, I realized an hour had passed, but I had the song in its entirety.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t know how.” He looked away, seemingly embarrassed. “There are other songs for you, other times you brought a song to mind, but this was the first.”

“Can I hear them?”

“Another day.” 

He kissed her, taking a long sip of her breath. By now she knew when he felt vulnerable with her, he’d try to gain back control with sex. This time, she let him. While they kissed, he unzipped her dress and ran his hand down her back. The feel of his fingers dragged across her skin made her shiver. She couldn’t believe how quickly he got her dress off--it had taken Meena’s and her mom’s help to put on the gown. The silky fabric slid down her body and she stepped out of the circle it made. She broke the kiss to bend down and pick it up.

“Leave it,” he said.

“I don’t want to ruin it. It seems disrespectful.”

“You’re the only person I know who minds the feelings of inanimate objects.”

She ignored him, and draped the gown over her chair. He came up behind her, kissed her neck, and traced his fingertips down her sides.

“You look very pretty in this lacy thing.” He ran his hands along her bra. It was fancy and backless, and bright white, like her dress. She got panties to match, with little blue lace edging. “You look prettier without it, though.”

She smiled. It had taken her two separate shopping trips and hours online to find the foundation garment ensemble to go with her dress. She knew he’d see it as nothing but another barrier to get through, but she’d still obsessed about her wedding night costume. 

“Use your clever fingers. See if you can figure out the fasteners.” She expected that to take a bit since it was more elaborate than a normal bra, but he unhooked the back immediately and let it fall. She bent to pick it up.

“Leave it.” He commanded, his hands on her waist. “They make those to be thrown on the floor.”

She turned in his arms and caught his mouth in a kiss. He took his tuxedo jacket off as she unbuttoned his shirt. Arching his eyebrows at her, he pointedly laid the jacket on top of her dress. 

“You’re my wife now, that means I must be gentle with you.” He kissed the tip of her nose. “We have to do this properly, in the bedroom with the door locked.” He took her by the wrist and began leading her to the hall. “No more holding you down, or sliding my cock into your beautiful, little mouth.”

“I think I’ll miss all that.” Molly stopped walking. “I thought we were finally going to try the riding crop--it’s been looming.”

He swallowed his smile and kissed her cheek. “After the wedding night. Tonight we hew to tradition.”

“Does that mean I’ll be unfulfilled?”

“We won’t hew that closely.” 

They went down the hallway to the bedroom. Molly laid down on the bed and watched him finish undoing his buttons. He had a wooden valet stand at the foot of the bed, and tortuously hung the shirt on it after its slow removal.

“I asked for this in a way, didn’t I?” Molly asked.

“You did.” His grin was positively vicious. He was clearly enjoying himself.

Since he invited appraisal, she gave it to him, looking unbidden at this man she loved. She loved that his pale chest flushed red because he was turned on and tried to ignore the white scars on his skin. His scars made her heart beat faster, not from desire, but from fear. Sometimes with him it was hard to tell the difference, one fed the other. She pushed away the dark thoughts and looked at his lean stomach with the curl of dark hair at the naval, his surprisingly broad shoulders and his arms. His strong arms, with their expanse of unbroken, clean skin, where he would drape Rosie when she had a tummy ache and rock her until she fell asleep. Molly felt his arms belonged to her, more than any part of his body.

With painstaking care, he untied his shoes then set them neatly on the valet.

“Oh come on,” she said.

“Patience.” He went to the bed and put his finger on her lip.

She tried to bite his finger, but he drew it away too quickly. 

He took down his trousers, then neatly folded them. When he was down to his briefs, he finally lied under the sheets next to her.

“I thought I was going to get the full show,” Molly said.

“Not until you take yours off.”

He kissed her cheek and began sliding out the pins holding her hair in place. With cautious movements, he took out a rose. It might have been a delaying technique, but the act of taking her hair down was comforting. She hadn’t realized how much tension the elaborate braid and updo was causing her. He continued to pluck flowers and pile them on the table beside them until her hair hung in long waves. He raked his fingers through.

“Shame I had to take away your flower crown. You looked like Titania with your hair up.” 

“Does that make you my Oberon?”

“Or your Bottom.”

“That’s a bit loaded.” She smiled.

He kissed her, probing and soft. With one finger, he teased under the elastic leg of her panties. She moved closer, trying to urge him on. It had the opposite effect. He took his hand away and rested it on the mattress.

She touched his stomach and felt his muscles tense under her hands. His skin was soft and she loved the way it felt against the back of her hand. She slid her hand down to his erection. With a firm grip, she grasped him through the fabric of his underwear. His chest jumped and he gasped. 

He lost his composure in a beautiful way. With trembling fingers he pinched her nipples, sending a jolt of pleasure through her. His kisses traveled down her throat, and he sucked her breast into his mouth. She wriggled against him as he went lower. He held her legs apart and started kissing in between. She grabbed a handful of his hair, hard, and he moaned against her. The vibration made her buck. He hugged her hips, like he’d made a home between her thighs.

She should have looked at him, should’ve saved the sight to keep her warm on cold nights when he was far away and she was fearful, but it felt too good. She squeezed her eyes shut. His mouth worked on one small part of her body, but it felt like he’d swallowed her whole. The tension burst and an orgasm swept through her with sparkling, bright pleasure. She almost knocked him off the bed. 

He crawled up her body and kissed her, over and over again, resting his palm on her throbbing sex.“Are you ready to honor me with you body.”

“Yes.”

He laid on top of her. His cock was so hard, sliding against her slick, swollen labia. He penetrated her and she curled her head against his shoulder. They kissed, and he moved slowly at first. She wrapped her legs around him and her arms around his shoulders. His thrusts got more jagged as he got closer and closer. He arched his back, all of him going stiff with tension before the release, when he went loose on top of her. He stroked her hair with his heavy hands.

“I thought we weren’t going to be dirty on our wedding night,” she said.

He smiled. “It’s not dirty when I do it to you.”

“I think the pope would have a quibble.”

“Well, I’ve got some notes for him, too.”


	8. April 1-April Fool's Day

April Fool’s Day, April 1

Sherlock didn’t like admitting to Molly that he enjoyed their morning jogs. Conceding to the pleasure of anything physical always made him feel like he’d betrayed too much information. Molly often pointed out that his legs were easily twice the length of hers, and he enjoyed a natural advantage during their daily exercise. She still darted ahead of him on the sidewalk. At least he got a view of her bottom in her stretchy leggings, although the t-shirt she wore was much too large and kept obstructing his view. 

Molly stopped abruptly and checked her phone. He nearly ran into her. Sherlock put his hands on her shoulders.

“Is that Mrs. Hudson? Is something wrong with Rosie?” he asked.

“It’s John,” Molly looked up at him, panic on her face. “He’s in hospital. Shot, and they think he’s also fighting dengue fever.”

Sherlock felt like he couldn’t breathe. They hadn’t heard anything about John in months. He never responded to the photos they sent and they’d never gotten so much as a postcard. Mycroft had been mum on the subject, despite several inquiries. 

In the intervening time, Sherlock had not forgotten his friend, but had taken for granted his safety. All of his focus had been on Rosie’s well-being for so long, he’d forgotten his responsibility to John Watson didn’t end with protecting his daughter. He’d also made a vow to John.

“Honey?” Molly pressed her fingers to his wrist and then his neck. He couldn’t bear the distraction of her concern. He’d lapsed, and John had paid the price.

“Where?” he asked. He shook out of her grasp and backed up. “Where is he?”

***

Molly paced in the hallway outside of John’s hospital room. He’d gotten out of surgery and was currently in stable condition, thought he’d lost his pancreas, gall bladder and part of a bile duct. At least his spine didn’t seem to be damaged. 

There were many, many things to consider, about where John had been, who had hurt him, where Mary was, and what should be done about Rosie. She couldn’t bear to think of everything--she couldn’t imagine what it was like in Sherlock’s mind. 

Sherlock had not looked well. His face had drained of color, and he wasn’t talking. He would not let her touch him. From the moment they found out about John, he wouldn’t let her comfort him in any way. It hurt just as much as the rest of the situation.

Her phone buzzed and she saw a text from Martha: “Doctor’s appt. Can you come get Rosie?”

Molly sent a yes and and estimated time of arrival. She ducked her head in the hospital room. Sherlock sat at the edge of the bed with John’s hand in his, staring off into space. She knew he was lost in his thoughts. For him that was more than an expression.

“Sherlock, I’m going to take care of Rosie now. Let me know if there’s a change.”

He grunted, but she wasn’t sure he understood. As she walked down the ward, she texted him the same information she’d just spoken, knowing that he’d probably be bellowing for her to get him a pitcher of water in an hour having forgotten she left.

***

The sight of his best friend near death had knocked him sideways and his thoughts came unbearably fast. Sherlock wanted opiates just to slow them down, and even though they were in a hospital with a sweet shop of narcotics floating around, he didn’t step out of line. He’d never forgive himself for doing that to Rosie.

He looked at John and his injuries and tried to puzzle it out. John and Mary must have been hiding out in the Caribbean somewhere, hence the dengue fever. The gun which shot him was an American sniper rifle used by the U.S. Army, different than the U.K. If it was an assassination attempt it was a severely botched one--perhaps the person who shot John intended to maim him or kill him slowly. There had been a rudimentary surgery before the one he’d received there, which told him he’d been injured in the Caribbean, patched up and somehow transported to London. There was no way John could have boarded a plane in that state and the injury was recent enough that someone had to have swept in and flown him back to his home country while John was still unconscious.

There was only one person John knew who could accomplish that feat.

Just as the realization dawned on him, the man himself walked into the room.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said.

Sherlock’s brother, impeccable in his pinstriped suit, sneered down at him. “You’re looking rather casual, brother mine.”

Sherlock was still in his running clothes, as he’d been all morning. His jog with Molly felt like a lifetime ago. Vaguely, he realized Molly had been gone for hours and he hadn’t registered her absence until that moment.

“Where’s Mary?” Sherlock asked. “I’m assuming she’s still alive or you wouldn’t have bothered with John.”

“She’s safe.” Mycroft sniffed. “When are you planning to stop playing house?”

“If you’d bothered to go to my wedding, you’d know I’m not playing at anything.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Then what?”

“Aren’t you done playing Father Goose? John’s baby.”

“When John is well.”

“And if he doesn’t recover?”

“Then I’ll care for Rosie the rest of my life.” Sherlock looked at John. “Why are you interested now when you’ve never been down to see her?”

“Mary, as you call her, would like to see the child.”

Too late, Sherlock read his brother’s expression, his body language. “She wants more than that, doesn’t she? She wants Rosie back.”

“She is the child’s mother.”

“In all the ways that matter, I’m her father, and there is no way I’m going to release her into a situation I deem unsafe.”

“Brother, it isn’t up to you.” Mycroft said, a little sadly. 

Sherlock’s heart rate increased and he got out of his chair. He pushed past his brother--Mycroft seemed disappointed, but didn’t try to stop him. Sherlock ran down the hospital hallway. He tried to call Molly, but her phone went directly to voicemail.

Mycroft hadn’t chastised him for his sentiment or his love. Since he’d admitted to his devotion to Molly, Mycroft couldn’t stop belittling his weakness, but just then, when he’d shown his heart, Mycroft had been silent. Mycroft hadn’t even commented on the fact that Sherlock had been holding John’s hand.

That told him his brother had a secret. The secret was Mary. It all made sense, suddenly--allowing Mary the freedoms other agents didn’t have, acceding to her wishes even though they were irrational and messy. Mycroft was in love with John’s wife and would permit her anything--much the way he’d permitted Sherlock to operate recklessly for years.

Sherlock hailed a cab to take him to Baker Street.

The ride seemed to take forever--he kept texting Molly in code, but got no response. All this time he’d been worried about John, he hadn’t spared a thought for his wife. Mary might be in a worse state than his best friend. 

He couldn’t think of that. He couldn’t think of any of this. He snapped away from those thoughts, shut them off until a more convenient time. 

When the cab got to Baker Street, he practically sprinted out. The street outside looked normal, and no one had forced the door. Mrs. Hudson’s apartment was undisturbed--her doctor’s appointment. She’d gotten out and handed the baby off to Molly then. He finished bounding up the steps and found the door to his apartment open. 

A woman, dressed in a black catsuit, sat in his chair. She had long, red hair pulled back in a ponytail and bright, blue eyes. Her skin was freckled. Despite her plastic surgery--a slight widening of the nose and cheekbones--it was the woman he’d known as Mary Watson. Mary lifted a gun with a silencer and aimed it at his heart.

“Where is Rosie?” she asked.

Sherlock put his hands behind his head without having to be told.

“I don’t know. Molly hasn’t responded to any of my texts. I’ve been at your husband’s bedside.”

She didn’t react to the mention of John and it led Sherlock to believe that there was more at play.

“You were on the road to leaving him when he was shot, weren’t you?”

“I didn’t hurt John. I would never--”

“No, but you’re the reason. That sniper’s bullet was meant for you, and John pushed you out of the way.”

“Yes. He was very brave.”

“But he was still planning to leave you. I can see it on your face. He couldn’t take life on the run any more--or was it Mycroft?”

That got her attention; her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. 

“That’s it, then. John’s discontent and resentment at making a split decision to leave his child built until your relationship became unbearable. Then you turned to your protector, your old love Mycroft. If John recovers he can take Rosie anywhere and vanish. At least with me, Mycroft would always give you access to your daughter, but there’s no guarantee of that now. In that case, you don’t have to kidnap your own child. For now, I’m legally her father, and Mycroft is my brother. He could have me declared unfit and take her. If you’d been clever, you could’ve shot me full of drugs and let me tear apart my own credibility.”

“That would take ages, and I honestly don’t have the time. People are after me.”

“Backed into a corner, you’re resorting to violence because you know it best. Which means you don’t want to shoot me, but you certainly will.” 

“That’s right.” She smiled to herself. “You love being right, Sherlock.”

“Not today.”

Mary stood up and began walking toward him. Reflexively, he knelt on the ground without being told. In this moment, he wished John was there, because he would have known how to talk her down. The image of John stood behind him and somehow he found better words to say.

“Will Mycroft protect you if you kill me?”

Mary stopped.

“He loves you, but there are limits, and you’ve hit them before, haven’t you? My death would be a hard stop. He’d forgive you for shooting Molly, but not me, not like this, when you absolutely could have avoided the confrontation.”

“Where is Rosie?” she bit out.

“I told you, I don’t know. Molly and I have discussed what to do in scenarios like this and agreed that she mustn’t tell me where she’s gone until she knows I’m safe.”

“How do you let her know?”

“After three days, she has someone check her safety deposit box. If I’ve left a note there, she knows I’m safe.”

“Bollocks.” Mary didn’t take the gun off of him, but her shoulders seemed to lose their precise angles. 

“How are you going to step into role of mother when you’re a fugitive, Mary? Rosie still wakes at two in the morning in need of a bottle. It’s easier to deal with now, but she’s still not sleeping through the night. When she was a newborn, it was three times a night, regular intervals. I dance her to sleep. She likes Curtis Mayfield lately.”

“You dance her to sleep? Not Molly?”

“Molly has a full time job and needs her rest at night. In the time when she’s working, I am Rosie’s sole caretaker. It takes two of us most of the time, and Mrs. Hudson once a day and Molly’s mother every other week. We love her. She has people who are deeply invested in her well-being, Molly’s whole extended family, cousins to play with at Christmas. Molly and I have been the ones to take her for her doctor visits and make sure her bottles are sterilized. She smiles when she wakes up and sees my face.”

“What’s your point?”

“If you die, Mary, Rosie will die. If by some chance she survives and finds her way to Mycroft, my brother will send your child to a boarding school. She’ll become an employee he cannot dismiss. That is the way my parents treated me when I disappointed them. He won’t have you to remind him he’s human. You can’t keep her safe. I can. You know I’m loyal, I’m clever and I’m just as rich as Mycroft. Lately, I’ve found I even have a heart buried in my chest. Molly is as clever, loyal and since she married me, rich. We’ll take care of Rosie until it’s safe for you to be with her again.”

“It’ll never be safe.” Mary said, bitterly. She lowered her gun. “I’ll never be safe.” She looked at the ceiling, her beautiful eyes shiny with tears. “This was madness, I don’t know why I thought--” She wiped her eyes with the back of her gloved hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Love is a kind of madness,” Sherlock said.

“When did you get so philosophical?” She laughed mirthlessly. 

“It’s just an observation--a personal one.”

“Take care of my daughter, Sherlock Holmes.” 

“Be safe, Mary.”

Mary stifled her sob. She ran through the room to his bedroom. He stood up and followed her, just in time to see her escape out his bedroom window. Sherlock watched her bound down the street, and seemingly disappear around the corner. 

He let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, and went up to Molly’s room. It looked empty, and the items inside had been tossed about. He lifted the secret panel on the window seat. 

Years ago, he’d installed a panic room in John’s part of the flat, in case there should have been an emergency. Even though John knew of its existence, he clearly hadn’t told his wife. A lucky break.

The safe room locked, was soundproof and had its own ventilation. There was a stockpile of food, water and baby formula which would last two weeks. One couldn’t get cell phone reception inside because of the sound dampening, that was the only problem he hadn’t been able to work out. 

There was a wooden ladder leading down to the panic room. Sherlock shouted down.

“Molly Hooper--Buttered toast!”

Her heard her footsteps against the wooden floor, and then saw her at the foot of the ladder, holding Rosie.

“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to warn you.” Molly lifted the baby up to him, and he reached down to collect her. Rosie nuzzled against his neck. He sighed.

“That doesn’t matter now,” he said, softly.

Molly climbed the ladder. He reached out to her, and grabbed her hand when she was on the last rung. When she was back on level ground, he pulled her into a hug.

“I love you. Do you know that? Because I don’t say, I don’t say it when I feel it even though you already have everything I am,” he said.

“Of course I know.”

“Promise me that you know.” He kissed her before she could answer. Mercifully, she kissed back and the reality of her grounded him. She held the sides of his face, and kissed him again, then rested her head on his shoulder, her arms around his waist.

All three of them stood there, the two adults terrified while the baby yawned and fell asleep.


	9. Christmas Day-December 25-The Holmes Estate

Christmas--December 25  
(The Holmes Estate)

Christmas dinner with his parents had been just as nightmarish as last year. His mother had subtly upbraided his father throughout the meal, but he’d been too drunk to notice. Then in the middle of dinner, his father had put his hand all the way up the maid’s skirt. Shameful.

At least Mycroft had something special to look forward to afterward.

He drove out to the boat house on his parents’ estate. Mycroft stood on the dock, looking at the dark, cold water and listening to the waves crashing. When he heard her vehicle pull up, he closed his eyes. He wanted to savor this part of it, the moment when he knew he’d see her again.

Her footsteps clattered on the wooden dock. When they stopped, he could feel the heat of her beside him. He opened his eyes and there Radha stood within arm’s reach. She wore a white fur coat down to her ankles and a round fur hat. She’d gone back to her original hair color--a platinum blond. Instead of the short pixie style she wore with John, she’d grown it out and styled it curls that fell down her back. 

“I’ve missed you,” he said.

“I’ve missed you, too.” She took his hand.

In seconds he was pressed against her, his hands sliding into the coat. She wasn’t wearing anything underneath besides knee length boots. She’d had her breasts augmented to draw attention away from her face. She’d had her tummy tucked to hide evidence of the baby. In the low light and with the plastic surgery to alter her appearance, she might have been 20-years-old. He’d never felt more guilty to have her in his arms.

“Let’s go inside--your hands are freezing,” she said.

“Warm them.” 

She took his icy hands in hers and he led her inside. He’d lit a fire in the main room, but they didn’t stop there. He took her to the bedroom and quickly divested her of her coat. 

“How are you so beautiful?” he asked.

“Combination of modern science and luck?” She cocked her head and smiled. 

He took off his clothes and they got under the blue and white comforter on the bed. No matter how she looked, she always tasted the same. In the dark, it could have been their first night together. Then again, it was always their first and last night together, because she would change completely from meeting to meeting. 

She made him finish twice--something nobody else could do. He’d done it alone when he was a teenager, desperately trying to rid himself of desire, but she was the only partner who’d been able to inspire that kind of need from him. Since the start of his career, all his other sexual encounters had been strictly transactional, a ruse on his part to get information, feign weakness or gain power. He’d never actually wanted anyone except for her.

After they were finished, she got up too soon. He couldn’t call her back, because admitting he wanted to hold her afterward would have been a weakness. She picked up her coat and took some things out of the pocket. Radha came back to him, her hands outstretched.

“Merry Christmas, Mycroft.” She handed him a thumb drive and a black pearl half the size of her palm. “The information you requested and the Black Pearl of the Borgias.”

“You had that in your coat pocket?”

“Not the whole time.” She smiled.

He put the items in the bedside table and took a package out for her. He locked the drawer. The moment he locked the drawer, it set a timeclock on their meeting--an agent would come to collect the items within the hour, and Radha could not be seen by this person. He could not be seen with Radha, and certainly not in their current state.

“I have something for you, too.” He handed her the manila packet.

“Who am I now?” She took the package from him. 

“I don’t know. It’s a passport and some other identification, some money. I didn’t ask this time. It pains me to know, to be honest.”

Her smile dwindled. “Thank you for sending on the pictures of Rosie.”

“Sherlock keeps putting them in the account, I’ve nothing to do with that. John won’t let me near her.”

“I don’t think he knows about us.”

“He knows. All three of them know, but if they’re lost so is the nation. You don’t have to lie to protect him.” He reached his hand out. “We have some time before we must go. Is there anything you need?”

“Honestly...no.”

“If you ever need a rest--”

“I tried that, didn’t I? Never gonna work. At least I have a legacy now, but the truth is, I’m yours, Mycroft. I’ll be yours until I die, and probably after, too, like Myka and Paul.”

“I didn’t want that for you.”

“You did your best, but my fate was already set before you met me, love.”

“I could make you my Anthea. With a little work, John wouldn’t know you.”

“Do you think we’d keep our hands off each other if we worked together every day? I don’t. Then you’d be vulnerable. No. We’ll just be like this, until we aren’t.” She put the coat on. During their tryst, she hadn’t bothered to take off the boots, which meant she was all ready to leave. 

He wrapped the sheet around his waist and stood. “Radha, what’s your real name?”

“You know it. It’s the name of my heart.”

“Rosamund?”

“That’s right.” She smiled, her grin warm enough to touch even him.


	10. Christmas Day--December 25--Alfie and Paloma's Estate

Christmas Day- December 25

(Alfie and Paloma’s Estate)

John sat on Alfie and Paloma’s couch, a plate of sweets before him that he couldn’t touch. All nine of Molly’s first cousins had journeyed to the estate that year. All nine of them, including her cousin Zhu, who still lived with her own mum, bought Rosie birthday and Christmas gifts. 

Molly’s family milled around the huge, wood-paneled room, drinking and laughing with the little ones. John counted at least six second cousins, varying from infants in arms to a 16-year-old. All of the women looked a bit like Molly--slim, delicate features and brown or red hair. Paloma stood out with her black hair, but the rest could all be sisters. The men were built like Alfie--lumberjack hands and broad backs.

John hadn’t expected to feel so welcome. Her cousin Opal had made sure he had as much food and non-alcoholic drink as he liked. He couldn’t imbibe anymore since his surgeries. He didn’t miss it as much as he missed cakes. His inability to partake in alcohol was not an issue for any of them. It certainly would have been with his sister--she would’ve taken it as an indictment.

Even above and beyond the gifts, Molly’s cousins had been kind about Rosie. There was a lot of concern about his “illness.” Before he’d actually become ill, the cover Sherlock had given them was that John had been too sick to care for Rosie himself. An illness was not a bad description, his grief had been like a fever, and the resulting decision to leave with his wife had led to a great deal of pain. 

Molly’s cousin, Rachel, sat down next to him and gave him a polite smile.

“You need anything, John? I could make you up a plate-”

“No,” he put his hand on his stomach, “I couldn’t have another bite. Since my surgery, I have to watch.”

“Yeah,” Rachel looked sympathetically at him. “I’ve had trouble with my gall bladder, it’s no picnic. Molly’s mum said you and Rosie were staying with them through your recovery. Is that still happening?”

“For right now. I couldn’t take Rosie on my own at first and now--”

“It would break her little heart, wouldn’t it?”

John looked down at his hands. “I think so, yeah.”

Rachel looked pointedly at Sherlock and Molly, who stood by the grand Christmas tree next to the fireplace. Sherlock had Rosie in his arms and was letting her gently touch the different ornaments, making sure she didn’t hurt herself or tug them down. The shimmery glass globes mesmerized her. John could see the fairy lights reflected in her enormous eyes and her little lips were in a perfect circle. With each new ornament Sherlock presented to her, Rosie said, “Oooh!” Molly stood beside them, a grin on her face. Each exclamation on Rosie’s part sweetened Molly’s smile. 

“I’d imagine it would have been broken hearts all around, eh?” Rachel asked.

“Yeah.” 

“You got family, John?”

“A sister, but we’re not close. Nothing like this. The Hooper Clan seems tight-knit.”

Rachel smiled. “We care for our own. Did your wife have family? Anyone Rosie can connect with now that she’s passed?”

“No, she was an orphan--or well I guess her mother was still alive, but she’s not living anywhere near here now.”

“Well, Rosie’s a Hooper now--if she’s Molly’s, then she’s ours too.”

“Thank you.” John found himself getting choked up, and Rachel got a panicked look on her face that made it worse. He tried to hide it, but that seemed to make the lump in his throat tighten. Rachel looked around and caught Molly’s eye. As soon as she saw her cousin’s distress, Molly came over.

“Hey, Rosie’s asking for daddy.” 

“That’s me then.” John patted Rachel’s hand and then stood up. “It was good talking to you, Rachel.” 

“You too, John.” Rachel stood up. “If you ever want to get a cup of coffee, I’m in London three times a week.”

“Sure.” She was pretty--of course she was, she looked like Molly, with her fine-boned features and her big eyes, except Rachel’s were blue, not brown. That didn’t matter so much anymore. He couldn’t picture himself in a relationship, not after everything with Mary. 

Molly gave Rachel a sympathetic smile, then led him over to Sherlock and Rosie. Sherlock saw them, took in John’s face and handed him Rosie. Having her in his arms helped a little, it always did. The three of them moved off from the main living room, to the empty library, which was past the stairwell.

“I’m sorry--Rachel’s good-hearted, but she’s intense sometimes,” Molly said.

“No, she was lovely. It’s the time of year. I didn’t think it would be this hard.”

Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder and didn’t say anything. He’d gotten better with the messy, human stuff by realizing he didn’t have to say anything at all. 

“We can go home, John. It’s fine.”

“No, Paloma baked a cake for Rosie. I’m good. I just need a moment.”

“Do you want us to take Rosie? She can sleep in our room tonight,” Molly said. 

Rosie looked at him quizzically, “Da?”

“I can handle this little one here. You two go back to the party.” John smiled at her, and she smiled back. It made him feel lighter. Sherlock squeezed his shoulder before letting go. As they left, before they closed the door, he saw Sherlock take Molly’s hand. 

He looked at his daughter, and found it impossible to be miserable when looking in her eyes. 

“Are you having a good Christmas, then?” he asked.

She answered him by shoving her chubby fist in his mouth. There was nothing left for him to do but laugh.

***

Molly had expected Sherlock to go back to the group, but he took her hand and led her upstairs. She looked at him askance.

“Where are you taking me?” she asked.

“There’s a bedroom up here.”

“There’s a few.”

“I thought we could chat on our own.”

“Chat?”

They walked past the hall of oil portraits, and the stained glass windows that contained red and blue Fleur di Lis, toward the first guest bedroom at the top of the stairs. It was not currently inhabited, but her cousin Opal, Opal’s husband and their infant son were set to spend the night there. Sherlock pulled her in the room, and she felt a little funny when he shut the door. Molly wanted to get back to her relatives--as much as she loved being with him, she hadn’t seen her cousins in months. She hoped the side trip wasn’t an awkward gambit for a quickie.

“What’s this about?” Molly asked.

He tugged her over to the bed and sat down. “I’ve been thinking--we should renovate the basement flat for John and Rosie. If we pay, Mrs. Hudson would agree. She’s just wasting the space anyway, not renting it out.”

He looked at her timidly, which was unusual for him. Most of the time he only got timid when they were talking about sex.

She sat next to him.

“Have you discussed it with John?”

“He might say no.”

“That’s why he’s the one to talk to about this.”

“When Rosie gets bigger she’ll need her own space. She can’t keep sleeping in his room, or ours.”

“I know, but we have a bit of time.”

“But he’ll move, eventually. He’ll have to, the way things are now, and then we’ll be friends, auntie and uncle. He’ll remarry and she won’t be ours at all.”

Molly put her hand over his. “She isn’t ours.” 

It hurt her to say it, but it was true. The day John’s name replaced Sherlock’s on the birth certificate had been hard for them both. 

“She is ours, and before you say that we could have our own baby, that’s not what I want. I want to help raise Rosie.”

“I wasn’t going to say that. I don’t want to replace her at all, but it’s John’s choice.”

“Then he needs to make the right choice.”

“Don’t push him.”

“I don’t push.”

“You steamroll.” 

“Possibly.” He smiled. “I’ll use my charm this time.”

“You can be charming.”

He picked her hand up and kissed her wrist. “I promise I won’t charm him the way I charm you.”

***

The night wound down after eleven, with the children in bed and the more adventurous of Molly’s cousins heading off to the pub. Paloma had set John up in a first floor guest room, the former servant’s quarters, and put him in Molly in the adjoining room. As they headed to the back of the house, John said, “Finally going back where I belong.”

“I know! Can’t believe my Alfie owns this place,” Molly said.

Sherlock didn’t chime in--he didn’t think his sense of novelty at being placed in the servant’s quarters would be appreciated. He especially didn’t think Molly would go in for the role play it brought to his mind, of the nobelman of the house sneaking in on his housemaid’s quarters to have his wicked way with her. 

They moved from the marble and wood of the front of the house, to the dark, rather ominous and narrow hallway of the back. When they opened the door to John’s room, it was strange to see Rosie’s plastic toys and Pack and Play in an otherwise period-specific room. 

“This is lovely,” Molly said, as she looked around. “Paloma put garland up in our room, too, and the boys made little Christmas trees for each of the guests.” Molly pointed. “There’s yours, right on the mantle.”

John smiled, bouncing Rosie on his hip. “It is lovely.”

“Molly, go to our room and ready yourself. I’ll help John,” Sherlock said.

Molly laughed and John pulled a mortified face. 

“Ready myself? What have you got planned?” Molly asked in mock horror.

“Better stretch, Molly,” John said, with a bounce of his eyebrows.

The two of them ganged up on him sometimes, and he usually dismissed it with a withering glance, but when they joked about personal matters he got extremely flustered. He couldn’t speak as they giggled at him.

Molly must’ve noticed the tips of his ears turning red, and saw fit to spare him.

“I’ll just change then. You can manage Rosie,” Molly kissed Sherlock on the cheek before she ducked out of the room.

John hefted Rosie onto his shoulder. She was cranky and fussing, her lower lip poked out. Sherlock fished her red and green pajamas out of the travel bag. John changed her diaper, and Sherlock laid the little outfit out beside her on the bed. John handed Sherlock the bundled dirty diaper and he got one of the plastic bags they carried for that purpose out of the diaper bag and wrapped it up before tossing it in the garbage. They both liberally squirted their hands down with sanitizer. 

“Have you thought of where you and Rosie are going to be living?” Sherlock asked.

John’s back stiffened slightly as he finished zipping the pajamas around Rosie’s kicking legs.

“Not really. It’s been day to day. I suppose I’ll have to find a job first before we consider moving out.”

“Nonsense. You work with me.”

“We’ve been light on cases lately.” John lifted Rosie off the bed and held her in his arms. She continued to fuss.

“You’ve been light on cases. I’ve been doing loads.”

“Without me?” John asked. John’s hurt expression deepened when Sherlock plucked Rosie from his arms. “What are you doing with my baby?”

“I settle her quicker. She likes my voice,” Sherlock snapped. He rocked her and hummed a little tune. She immediately nuzzled into his neck and stopped making noise. Proving his point usually felt better. “As for the cases, most of them I look over and solve before breakfast. Not worth wasting your time.” 

“And what else have I got to do with my time?” John asked.

“Heal. Get to know your daughter.”

John sighed. “Without you and Molly to care for Rosie, I need more money, which means a full time job.” 

“Then why should you leave Baker Street? If we renovated the basement apartment, we could make it suitable for you and Rosie. Between the three of us and Molly’s mother, we could arrange for her caring. We want Rosie close, Molly and I.” He looked at the groggy baby. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Rosie?” She responded by grabbing the tip of his nose. “You see. Rosie is in agreement.” 

John crinkled his chin and smiled. “Thought you were going in another direction with that.”

“You’ll do it then?”

“Yes. That would be ideal, actually. She needs you and Molly. Especially Molly. I don’t know how to put hair in a braid, or what to say when a boy breaks her heart.”

“That won’t happen. Rosie’s too sensible, and if any boy tried to break her heart I’d follow him to the depths of hell and destroy him.”

“No.”

“Right. Molly would be the one to deal with all that, then.”

John smiled at him. “Thank you for everything you’ve done for us.”

Sherlock shook his head and frowned. “Don’t. It’s what I wanted to do.” 

Sherlock kissed Rosie’s cheek, and finished humming her to sleep. He set her in her Pack and Play. John looked happier than he’d seen him in months, and it occurred to Sherlock that he could’ve ended both their suffering much earlier by speaking up. 

He nearly hugged John--they’d done that a few times since he’d returned. The day he got home from the hospital and another time, when he’d found John crying alone in the kitchen over a spilled container of formula. The second time had been a small moment of despair, but more than the first, necessitated comfort. 

Instead, Sherlock patted John on the shoulder.

“I should see to Molly.” 

John’s smirk in response to his phrasing caused him to clarify, “Not what I meant.”

“I know what you meant. Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

“Merry Christmas, John.” 

Sherlock went into the dark hallway, closing John’s door behind him. He stood there, collecting his thoughts. Inexplicably, he had the urge to call his brother. He discarded the idea and went in to see Molly. She looked up from her book and smiled at him when he entered the room. While he’d been talking to John, she’d changed into a white, lace nightgown. Sheer. She looked like an angel fallen into his bed.

He locked the door behind him.

“How did it go?” she asked.

“He agrees it’s the best solution.”

“That’s wonderful,” she said, softly.

Sherlock unbuttoned his shirt as he moved closer to her. “You look very pretty, Molly. Am I allowed to say that, or is it a boundary?”

“I think I’ll let you, since it’s Christmas.”

He got to the bed and gathered her up into his arms. They kissed. Everything else was pushed into the background when she kissed him. He paused for a breath and whispered in her ear.

“Thank you.”

“For what?”

“This was even better than last year.”

She hugged him close, and smoothed her fingers through his hair. He wrapped his arms around her, the silk of her nightgown sliding under his palms. He pressed his ear to her chest to listen to her metronome heart. Even more than desire, he felt overwhelmed with love for her--feelings so big they pressed against his chest and choked off his words. That didn’t matter, though, because she understood. Being understood was worth all the terror of losing her, all the weight of his responsibilities. Being understood was worth everything.


End file.
